


Of Freelancers and Outlaws

by SadinaSaphrite



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overwatch Recall, POV Alternating, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15610848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadinaSaphrite/pseuds/SadinaSaphrite
Summary: “What’ll it be, archer? Choose carefully, or I decorate the walls with this cowboy's brains.”“Jesse, do you remember the day we met? Do you remember the promise I made to you?” Hanzo asked, sounding so utterly unconcerned that he may have well been talking about the weather, despite holding Storm Bow at full draw.“I do, sweetheart,” McCree swallowed hard and his throat moved against the revolver jammed under his chin. “I trust you.”“Good.” Hanzo released.McCree closed his eyes and felt the arrow pierce his chest.McCree refuses Winston's Recall and Hanzo declines Genji's invitation to join Overwatch. Instead, the pair find each other and join up as bounty hunters. However, moving forward isn't easy when the ghosts of the past refuse to stay dead...





	1. Letting the Call to Action Go to Voicemail

“Winston? Is that you, love? It’s been too long!”

“Yes. Yes, it has.”

“I was just talking about you the other day, telling Emily about that business in Finland, do you remember? When we couldn’t find a coat big enough for you so we had to fashion one out of a blanket and safety pins because the furnace was broken and it was bloody freezing? Anyway, don’t mean to ramble, you know how it goes. How are you, love?”

“Oh, Lena…you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.”

“Winston? What’s wrong? What’s ‘appened?”

“Talon attacked the Gibraltar Watchpoint.”

“Oh, God! Are you–”

“I’m fine, don’t you worry. They were after the location of all former Overwatch agents. They didn’t succeed, but it was a close call. I’m recalling all Overwatch agents to active duty.”

“Oh, Winston! But Petras…”

“I know. We’ll have to deal with that as it comes. Well, Lena? What do you think? Are you with me?”

“You want me to drop the life I’ve been building over ‘ere and bugger off to Gibraltar with you, breaking multiple international laws along the way and throw my lot in with a bunch of retired heroes and renegades? Of course I’m in! When do we start? Will I get to fly again? Have we got any Orcas left? Are we living at the base? Can Emily come? Who else is coming back?”

“Whoa there, slow down! I’ve sent out the recall to all former Overwatch agents. As to who will actually return? Well…we’re going to have to see who answers.”

* * *

After only a single day, New Orleans earned a place of honor on “Jesse McCree’s List of Shitty Cities to Avoid.” He exited the bus at ten in the morning and all he really wanted to do was check into a cheap motel and bum around the city for a bit before meeting his contact for dinner. Over the course of the day he caught a kid trying to swipe his wallet, waved off a guy trying to sell him obviously stolen goods, and was assaulted by muggers twice. The attempted muggings at least helped him blow off some steam by leaving his would-be robbers beaten and bloody in some alleyway, but if he was going to have to watch his back the entire two weeks needed for this job, then he was going to be plumb tuckered out by the end of it.

Then there was the goddamn humidity. A far cry from the desert air he grew up in, McCree felt like he was drowning with every breath. It made his skin crawl, sticky and sweaty all over, and his light undershirt clung uncomfortably to his skin under the serape. He’d been in Louisiana for less than a day and his hair was already starting to go curly under his hat. Thank God his prosthetic arm was tempered for full climate protection. Finding a decent mechanic was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

As things stood, crime and climate be damned, he was sorely strapped for cash and the job promised good money, so he paid up for two weeks at a shitty dive of a motel and went to meet his contact.

At least the gumbo he snagged for lunch was good.

Dusk was falling as he finally arrived at the little restaurant he was supposed to meet his contact. He stood in front of the quaint, out-of-the-way building and examined the sign above the door. “ _Nouilles de Famille,_ ” it read in flowing cursive, embellished with a stylized bowl of spaghetti with meatballs. Was this…an Italian restaurant with a French name?

Goddamn New Orleans.

McCree checked his phone to verify it was the right address. The phone buzzed in his hand and a red, urgent notification popped up to block his screen.

_URGENT TRANSMISSION: OVERWATCH EMERGENCY CHANNEL 0204-349 IMMEDIATE RESPONSE REQUES–_

McCree thumbed his phone off and pocketed it.

He straightened the serape around his shoulders and stepped inside. A bell rang cheerfully overhead as he entered the little restaurant and the hostess gave him a brilliant smile, white teeth flashing against dark skin.

“How many in your party, sir?”

“Oh, I’m just here to meet someone. A Marco somethin’?

The hostess’s bright smile never wavered, but her entire expression became a little more fixed on her face. She set the menu in her hands down.

“Your name?”

“Jesse McCree.” He tipped his hat.

“Right this way, sir. You’re expected.”

She led him past rows of tables and patrons, and McCree didn’t miss how a significant number of the customers gave him a quick glance as he passed. He was escorted into a little back room with a single table, large enough to seat twenty, though only two chairs were present and one man was currently seated. He rose at their entrance, and McCree was struck by the thought that this is what a walrus would look like if given human form. He was large and heavy, wearing a well-tailored suit that fit snugly over his ample stomach. His thick, grey moustache managed to look well-groomed while staying distractingly bushy and he gave McCree a wide smile that didn’t quite meet his shrewd, beady eyes.

“Ah, Mr. McCree. A pleasure to meet you in person. Come, pull up a chair!” he said, gesturing to the table. He had an accent McCree couldn’t place, something vaguely European.

“Thank y’kindly,” McCree tipped his hat and let his eyes scan the room. No windows and only one door, positioned to McCree’s back where he couldn’t watch it. He gave his host a charming smile anyway and took the offered seat.

“Marco, is it?”

“Marco Gammarano,” his host confirmed, taking his seat again. A server appeared and opened a bottle of wine, pouring them both a glass before vanishing again. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Well enough,” McCree said, taking a sip to be polite. Ugh. He’d never been a big fan of wine. If he couldn’t have liquor with some bite to it, he’d at least prefer a beer over this glorified fermented grape juice. “Interestin’ city you’ve got here. I can see why you’d want my services.”

“Naturally. But please, take a moment to relax! Look at the menu! We can discuss business over good wine and good food.” Marco made a show of smelling and sampling the wine. “Ahh… A Gevrey-Chambertin pinot noir, 2065, a good year.”

Goddamn pretentious wine aficionados.

McCree scanned the menu. Yep. Italian, and half of the menu in a language he couldn’t read.

“When you said we were meeting for dinner, I thought it would be something a little more local. I admit I was lookin’ forward to trying genuine Cajun jambalaya, maybe some crawdads.”

Marco scoffed. “Ah, do not believe the hype, my friend! This is the best cuisine in New Orleans, right here!”

“In that case, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” McCree set the menu down, not wanting to take his eyes off Marco for too long. Something about this whole situation set his nerves on edge.

Marco waved at the doorway behind McCree, presumably to a server, and it took a measure of will for McCree to not look back over his shoulder to watch. His skin crawled at the feeling of having his back exposed, but he flashed Marco an easy grin and sat back to enjoy his shitty expensive wine.

Footsteps entered from the door behind McCree and a server appeared carrying a set of platters with sliced bread, tomato, mozzarella, artichoke hearts, olives, and leaves of basil. The entire affair was spread over a total of three platters and plated beautifully: the cheese, tomato, and basil arranged to be reminiscent of a peacock’s fanning tail, artichoke and olives checkering another dish, and the bread arranged into a spiraling tower. McCree couldn’t see the point. Why waste time making food look pretty? It was all going to be chewed up and turned into shit in the end. Oh well. Their loss. McCree took advantage of the free food while he could.

“So, this job,” McCree prompted around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Yes,” Marco sat up straighter. “You may not know this, but our fair Crescent City has a sordid history with crime.”

“Hah,” McCree interjected.

A knowing smile tugged at the wide lips under Marco’s moustache. “Yes, well. I’m sure a man such as yourself could spend years trying to eradicate the criminals here and still never make a dent. However, I know of one particular man who has been making trouble for me and my family for quite some time.”  
Marco pulled a slender disc out of a pocket and set it on the table. A tap of his finger activated a hologram, depicting a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a thin, pencil moustache.

“Giuliano Lombardi, age 54. Wanted for assault, murder, extortion, smuggling…”

As Marco droned on about Giuliano’s crimes, a frown slowly spread over McCree’s face. It didn’t take a lot for the pieces to fall into place; Marco hadn’t exactly been subtle.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” McCree finally interrupted. “Catch this guy, haul him into the authorities?”

“Oh no,” Marco said with a smile, seemingly unfazed by the interruption. “He’s far too well connected. His contacts will get him out of jail in no time, even if convicted. I’m afraid he requires a more…permanent solution.”

Yep. There it was.

“You sure I’m the right guy for this job?” McCree asked. “Because it sounds to me like this fella’ ain’t exactly a problem to your family so much as he’s a problem to your Family.”

Marco’s smile widened.

“An astute observation, Mr. McCree.”

“It weren’t exactly hard to figure out,” McCree leaned back and lit a cigarillo. He had a feeling this meeting wouldn’t last long enough for the main course, and he needed the nicotine buzz. “You call me into a city with notoriously high crime, drag me into an Italian restaurant run by Italians, and tell me you want another Italian dead? Pretty obvious that this is organized crime. Ain’t you got people for this? What do you need me for?”

“I need to be unattached in all this,” Marco said. “The Lombardi Family knows I’m gunning for them. But the wild and unpredictable outlaw Jesse McCree? You’re dangerous. A loose cannon. No one will look my way if Jesse McCree happens to kill a man.”

McCree scowled and took a drag on his cigarillo. That wasn’t exactly the image he’d been trying to cultivate over the last few years, and he couldn’t help but be personally offended. He wanted to be known as more of a vigilante, a rogue gunslinger dispensing justice where needed, but his unfortunate run-ins with the law had soured that image significantly, and now this mobster expected him to pop off some thug just because he was getting paid for it.

“Sorry, Marco,” he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “I ain’t just some common hitman. I’m in the business of killin’ bad guys, not workin’ for ‘em.”

“That’s a pretty bold claim.” The smile was gone from Marco’s face and the warmth in his voice was replaced with ice. “Haven’t you been working for the ‘bad guys’ all your life? First Deadlock, then Blackwatch…between the two of them, you’ve done terrible things that would make my hair curl. What makes you think you’re better than me and mine?”

McCree gave him a humorless smile. “Not sayin’ I’m better than you. Just sayin’ that ain’t my gig anymore. And I sure as hell ain’t dumb enough to get involved in a mafia war. Thanks for the appetizer, but I’ll get out of your hair now, if you don’t mind.”

He turned around only to find a pair of thick, meaty thugs in suits blocking the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCree,” Marco sighed. “I can’t risk having you warning the Lombardi Family about my interests. If you aren’t going to work for me, I’m afraid you leave me little choice. And that $60,000,000 bounty of yours will certainly pay for a more willing assassin.”

Goddammit.

"I'm gonna give you one chance to let me walk out that door," McCree said. "Don't make this hard, Marco."

Marco made a gesture to the thugs. "Take him, boys."

McCree shrugged. "You asked for it."

He swung at the closest thug with a left hook. To the man's credit, he was fast enough to pull his arms up and block the punch, but he was no match for the strength behind McCree's prosthetic arm. Bone cracked beneath his metal fist and the thug reeled aside.

The second brute lunged at McCree, grabbed him around the middle, and shoved him back against the table. McCree snagged the bottle of fancy ass pinot noir by the neck and broke it over thug’s head. The satisfaction of seeing an ungodly expensive wine drip down some dumbass's stunned face was priceless.

McCree shoved the stunned wine guard off him and ran past broken arm guard. He bolted out of the private room into the restaurant proper. Half the patrons, a good dozen or so humans and omnics, were rising to their feet and pulling weapons from various places.

Ah. Right. Family restaurant. It was never easy, was it?

"Here we go," McCree muttered under his breath. He cracked his knuckles and charged into the fray.

McCree fought like the desert he heralded from: gritty, brazen, and merciless, going full throttle with nothing held back. He used his prosthetic arm to his advantage, both blocking and swinging back without restraint. Bones cracked and noses broke under his metal fist. He kept his good hand near Peacekeeper, but drawing the revolver would escalate the fight so something much more lethal than a brawl, and he was outnumbered a dozen to one. He focused on avoiding blows and striking out when an opening presented itself, all the while working his way closer to the door.

As he ducked and weaved through the fight that was rapidly falling into chaos, he found that those big, fancy Italian suits did very little to hide when one of the mobsters had a wallet in their pocket. McCree kicked tables over and threw anything he could grab to add to the confusion, and started snagging wallets while he kept his opponents distracted. He didn't get out completely unscathed, earning a few bruises and a split lip as he weaved through the crowd, but finally made it out of the building without getting nailed with anything worse than some solid punches. Thank God they were smart enough not to pull a gun in such confined quarters.

"After him!"

McCree took off at a dead sprint, running with long legs through the evening streets, spurs jangling and serape billowing behind him. He took several sharp turns, but the sounds of pursuit weren't far behind.

Up ahead was a square where a large crowd of people were listening to a live jazz band. McCree put on a burst of speed and rounded a corner, then ducked into an alcove instead of charging ahead into the crowd. He stayed in the alcove just long enough to pull the serape off his neck and throw it around his waist like a sash, then tucked his hat under his arm, rolled down his sleeves, and stepped back out into the crowded square. He didn’t react as the sound of heavy footsteps followed. He kept his eyes forward and focused on looking calm, his shoulders relaxed, and kept his eyes on the jazz band.

“Where’d he go?”

“He was just here!”

“How does a dumbfuck with a cowboy hat just vanish?”

McCree smiled to himself and followed the flow of the crowd, looking like any of the other tourists, one more brown mop of hair amid dozens of others. He grabbed an empty beer bottle off the ground and joined a group of drunks as they wandered out of the square and away from his pursuers. The Gammaranos would expect him to be alone, not in a group that acted like old friends, so he laughed and chatted with them, found them to be cheerful in their intoxication, and joined their barhopping for the next few hours. He drank very little and bought them each a drink, then finally bid them farewell as midnight came and went.

The late night street was empty, but McCree had a prickle on the back of his neck that felt like eyes still watching him. He walked alone for another mile or so, looking for any signs of pursuit. A second mile and the feeling of eyes on his back didn’t abate, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming, so he tentatively chalked it up to paranoia. He replaced his hat and serape and let out a long breath. Safe, for the moment. In theory. Now where the hell was he?

He was still in a commercial area. He hadn’t gone so far as to find himself in a neighborhood, but he’d certainly wandered off the beaten path. The shops lining the street were all closed and dark, and the street empty of pedestrians. He leaned against the wall of a closed salon and pulled his phone up. He typed with both hands, his large thumbs a little clumsy with his prosthetic, and looked up his motel’s address.

_URGENT TRANSMISSION: OVERWATCH EMERGENCY CHAN–_

McCree closed the notification. Looked like he was only a few miles away from his motel, and it was mostly a straight shot north. It only took a moment to plot a route to get him back to a warm bed, and it didn’t bring him anywhere near a certain Italian restaurant.

He pocketed his phone, lit up a new cigarillo, and headed off.

Now what? His motel was paid up for two weeks and he was now burdened with an abundance of free time. He started fishing through the wallets he’d snagged from the mobsters as he walked, pocketing the cash and disposing of the rest. He wasn’t dumb enough to save the credit cards, too concerned that they’d be traced back to him. He counted up the cash and did a little quick math in his head. Added to his current funds, it would be enough to keep him fed for a little over a week with enough to spare for smokes and a few drinks. Or, if he wanted to leave immediately, it was probably enough to get him a bus ride out of the South, but then he’d be sleeping on benches until he could scrounge enough cash together to afford lodging.

Not bad, either way. He’d done more with less before. So long as he kept the mob off his tail, it was probably best if he stayed in town. He could use the free time to get some articles written under Joel Morricone’s name. He didn’t have another article due until the end of the month, but the more articles he sent to his editor, the more articles he could get sold to various websites and publishers, and the more he would get paid.

Not that he could use any of Joel’s money; his alias’ finances were off limits. That money had another purpose, and McCree definitely never wanted the accounts to be audited and traced back to his real identity. Joel, despite being a fake person, had a real job as a political and current events journalist. Considering that he only needed to submit his articles online and never once needed to meet his editor in person, McCree hadn’t found it too hard to juggle the two identities. Maybe Joel’s next article would be about organized crime in New Orleans, he thought with a fit of petty spite.

Even if McCree couldn’t find a job, New Orleans had plenty of opportunities for him to win some poker games or swindle some pool sharks. He’d earn what he could here, see if he could follow any job leads, then catch a bus and get the hell out of Louisiana.

That was the problem with being an outlaw and freelance gunslinger, McCree thought. No stability. The sixty million on his head didn’t help, either.

“I heard stories about a wandering cowboy with a metal arm.”

The voice came from the shadows beneath a broken street light, a vaguely human shape in the darkness. Before the speaker had even finished, McCree drew Peacekeeper and spun around, pointing the barrel directly at the speaker’s chest.

“I thought I felt eyes on me,” he drawled. “Show yourself.”

The figure stepped forward and green lights pulsed into view along his form. The cigarillo dropped from McCree’s lips as he found himself face to face with a memory, his gaze met by white and chrome body armor accented by luminous green LEDs.

“I was sure the stories were exaggerated, but it seems they were at least partially true,” the speaker continued unflinchingly, green visor staring down Peacekeeper’s barrel.

“As I live and breathe,” McCree said with wonder. “Genji-Fucking-Shimada.”

“Jesse McCree. It has been a long time.”

“Six years,” McCree confirmed, but still held Peacekeeper steady. “How do I know it’s really you? Could be anyone behind that mask.”

Genji tilted his head to one side, birdlike, as if considering.

“The last time we were in Portugal together, we had a dart-throwing contest using my shuriken. You were so drunk that you fell over with a fistful of shuriken and came centimeters away from cutting off your own dick.”

“Holy shit,” McCree breathed, and Peacekeeper’s barrel dropped a few inches. “It really is you.”

“As it was, you still cut up your thighs, but you made me promise not to tell Angela, so we bought a first aid kit from a gas station and–”

“Okay, okay! I believe you!”

“–tried to take care of it ourselves, but it got infected a week later and then you had to admit to Angela what happened after all and she–”

“Goddammit, Genji! I swear to God I will shoot you anyway if you don’t shut up!” McCree shouted, but he holstered the revolver all the same.

“Hah,” Genji laughed. “You can try.”

McCree scoffed, “You might be fast, Genji, but you ain’t faster than a bullet.”

“Why don’t we find out?” There was a smug confidence in his voice, and the synthetic overtones of his respirator sounded exactly as McCree remembered.

McCree was hit by a sudden wave of déjà vu, sure they’d played out this exact conversation before in Blackwatch. They’d give each other sass and vague threats, and then carry that attitude to the practice range if they were feeling responsible, or to reckless dares and fights if they weren’t.

A swell of emotion rose in his chest and constricted around his throat. For a moment, it was as if the last eight years hadn’t happened. He was Jesse McCree, second-in-command of Blackwatch and the trusted right hand of the legendary Gabriel Reyes. He didn’t have to worry about affording a hot meal in a week’s time, or wonder if he would spend the night sleeping on a park bench, or resort to sneaking aboard hovertrains. He was back in Blackwatch at the top of his game, saving the world from the shadows and working alongside the best people he’d ever met. Before Venice, before the U.N. accords, before Geneva, before Petras.

Before it all came crashing down.

God, it was hard to see how far he’d fallen until the world reminded him what it was like to be on top.

His chest tightened and his lower lip trembled. Dammit, if he cried in front of Genji, he’d never forgive himself. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so McCree put a heavy hand on Genji’s shoulder, giving him a chance to pull away. When he didn’t retreat, McCree pulled him in for a tight hug. He didn’t expect anything in return; the Genji he knew was filled with hate and rage and pain, so he was surprised when he felt cybernetic arms wrap tight around him. It was enough that McCree had to fight to choke back a sob.

“Goddamn,” McCree said, and he knew his voice was rough with emotion. “You are a damn sight for sore eyes.”

“As are you, Jesse,” Genji said, softer than McCree expected. “It has been a long time.”

McCree was the one to finally pull away first, and if Genji noticed McCree hastily wipe his eyes, then he didn’t mention it.

“You look exactly like I remember,” he said with a rough laugh. “That Mark III body treating you well, I take it?”

“It is,” Genji said. “It suits me, much better than the Mark II. I hated all that black and red and exposed wiring. Though I see you’ve had some upgrades, too.”

He took McCree’s prosthetic arm in his hands, and McCree didn’t resist as Genji looked it over.

“I know you think my cybernetics are super cool, but I didn’t expect you to try and copy my style,” he said, but McCree could hear how his voice had become strained, trying to sound casual to mask his distress. “Jesse, how did you lose…What happened?”

“Lost a bet against an arms dealer. I thought he was after Peacekeeper, then found out he dealt in the other kind of arms.”

It was enough to surprise a laugh out of Genji and he let McCree’s prosthesis go.

“Alright, don’t tell me. I don’t mind,” he looked around at the dark, empty street. “So, New Orleans! I’ve never been! Did you come for Mardi Gras?”

“It’s April. Mardi Gras was about two months ago. There seems to be some kind of jazz festival goin’ on, though. Not sure if that’s a thing or if that’s just New Orleans,” McCree chuckled for a moment and lit up a new cigarillo. “What the hell are you doin’ here, Genji?”

“Looking for you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

McCree rolled his eyes. “No, I don’t, you goddamn ninja. Why are– hey, is that my phone?”

Genji was looking through McCree’s phone, though McCree had no idea how or when Genji had snatched it. Genji pulled away as McCree tried to take it back.

“I just want to see if…ahah. So you _did_ get it.” Genji held the phone out, now playing the message McCree had been firmly ignoring.

“ _Thirty years ago, the omnics declared war,_ ” Winston’s voice said, tinny over the phone’s cheap speakers. “ _The nations of the world had no answer, until they–_ ”

McCree snatched the phone out of Genji’s hand and shut it off.

“Winston has recalled all old agents. We’re bringing Overwatch back,” Genji said. “Winston is making Watchpoint: Gibraltar our new central headquarters. You’ve been off the grid for a while, so I wanted to make sure the message got to you.”

“Yeah, I got it,” McCree grumbled.

“Then why haven’t you answered?” Genji asked.

“Because I ain’t coming!”

Genji froze, and even through the visor, McCree could tell the cyborg was staring at him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” he said. “You, Jesse McCree, self-proclaimed dispenser of justice, are refusing to rejoin the one organization left in this corrupt world that can actually do some good?”

“Hah,” McCree said dryly. “You make it sound like Overwatch wasn’t also steeped in corruption at the end.”

“That’s why we’re starting over!” Genji insisted. “No more secrets, no more black ops, no more damn Talon spies. It’ll be different this time!”

“No more black ops, huh?” McCree took a drag on his cigarillo and started walking again. “You forget all the good we did in Blackwatch? Or are you agreeing with the U.N. and think we never should have existed at all?”

“I’m not saying that,” Genji easily kept pace beside him. “But maybe we went about some things the wrong way. Maybe we should have been at least a little more public. And maybe we shouldn’t have crossed some of the lines we did.”

“Still don’t see what that has to do with me,” McCree huffed. “If you ain’t thinking of bringing black ops back into the new and improved – and absolutely illegal, I might add – Overwatch, then I don’t see what you’d want with me.”

“You sell yourself short, Jesse. You would still make a fantastic agent. You are skilled and intelligent, and our black ops training will still prove useful, I think. You are damn good at what you do, and you know it! You are wasted at doing all…” Genji waved a hand vaguely. “…this. You are capable of so much more, and there is so much good you could do. With your background and tactical finesse, you would even make a good commander!”

McCree let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Me in command? You’re kidding, right? What, you gonna slap my ugly mug on all the new recruitment posters? Make sure you don’t get them mixed up with the wanted posters. That’d be awkward.”

“Dammit, McCree! Stop it!” Genji caught McCree’s shoulder and stopped him in his tracks, turning him to face him. “I want you to follow me back to Gibraltar because you are my friend. There is no one else in the world I would trust more than you to have my back. You don’t like the idea of Overwatch coming back? Fine. But say it to my face instead of bullshitting me with deflection and all this self-deprecating garbage!”

Genji reached up and disconnected his visor so he could meet McCree’s gaze, a hiss echoing down the empty street as the silver plating fell away.

“Go on,” he snapped. “Look me in the eyes and tell me why you won’t join us.”

McCree couldn’t have looked away from those brown-green eyes if he had tried.

“Well?” Genji demanded.

“Because I can’t,” McCree said softly.

“That isn’t an answer.” Genji folded his arms, tapping his visor impatiently against one carbon steel arm.

McCree sighed and leaned against a street light. “I can’t join you because I really do believe in what you guys are doing. You’re right. Overwatch needs to come back. The world’s goin’ to shit all over again and someone needs to do something. I don’t even think we ever should have gone away, except for maybe just long enough for us to shake out the snakes in the grass. But the world ain’t gonna see it that way, so you’re going to need all the help you can get. And if the public sees me with you? Hell. That ain’t gonna look good at all. My file was made public when Gabe’s was, all so the U.N. could drag his name through the mud. The whole world knows all the shit I’ve done, and they didn’t take too kindly to it.”

He gave Genji a bitter smile.

“You don’t need the likes of me bringing the rest of you down.”

“Jesse…” Genji’s eyes were wide and expressive, looking up at McCree with unabashed concern. “You know none of us think that way about you. You would be welcomed with open arms.”

“Thanks, Genji. That means a lot,” McCree flicked ash off the cigarillo. “And God, but I wish I could. I think about you lot all the time. You, Winston, Lena, Angie, Rein, Torb… I miss y’all something fierce. Not to mention everyone we…”

His traitorous throat closed up again and tears beaded in his eyes, feelings he’d stubbornly tried to bury coming to light.

“Everyone we lost,” Genji quietly supplied. “Reyes, Amari, Lacroix…”

“Yeah,” McCree said, voice rough as he swallowed back his emotions. “Hell, I even got close with Jack at the end, when shit really started to go sideways. But what I want and what Overwatch needs ain’t the same thing. Not this time. I ain’t gonna sabotage your chances at a comeback before you even get started.”

Genji let out a long sigh. “I don’t like it, but I see your point.”

“You know…” McCree said slowly. “If you wanted, you could stay with me. Could use a partner, and hell knows I could do with someone watchin’ my back.”

Genji’s eyes crinkled at the corners in what McCree recognized as a smile before he replaced his mask. “Were circumstances different, I would team up with you in a heartbeat. But I feel that my place is with Overwatch.”

He began to walk back toward the shadows, his sash flowing in a breeze that McCree couldn’t feel. McCree had worked alongside Genji long enough to tell that an unnecessarily dramatic ninja exit was about to take place.

“Hey, Genji,” he said, hoping to delay Genji’s departure. The ninja glanced over his shoulder. “What happened to you? Last I remember, you were a bit of a vengeful, murderous bastard. Not that I’m complaining about the change.”

Genji turned back to face him.

“I found harmony,” he said simply, as if that explained anything.

“Harmony, huh?”

“Perhaps if you ever find yourself in Gibraltar I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Haha. Asshole.”

Genji chuckled. “On that note…McCree, before I go. Thank you. You put up with me when I was at my worst, all those years ago. I know it didn’t seem like it, but it really meant a great deal to me. Even though I may have acted cold or unkind at the time, I truly think of you as my best friend.”

This time, the stinging at the corners of his eyes was too much, and McCree had to blink quickly to clear the traitorous moisture from his eyes.

“Weren’t nothin’. Don’t forget that you had to put up with my punk ass, too,” He tipped his hat, using the motion to hide the fact that he needed to wipe his eyes again. “You back off to Gibraltar, then?”

“Eventually. I have business in Japan first,” he turned away once again. “A storm is coming, Jesse. I don’t know how or when, but the signs are all there. Take care of yourself, and be careful.”

A coil of grey smoke curled into existence, enveloping them both, and Genji was gone before McCree could say another word.

A storm, huh? There was always some sort of shit going down somewhere in the world. McCree should know; his fake name had made a career writing about it. Whatever had Genji all worked up likely wouldn’t blow McCree’s way. And if it did? He’d meet it head on, like always.

Like the mountains and mesas of his homeland, Jesse McCree could weather a storm.


	2. Family History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo reacts to a discovery and takes action.

“Winston. It’s been a long time.”

“…Agent Shimada. Let me start by thanking you for calling. Uh. I mean…for answering the recall. I mean, uh, for calling back concerning answering the recall, not just assuming that you’re answering, not to say that you aren’t! Uh…Listen. I know that you haven’t had the best experience with Overwatch, and you left under less than ideal circumstances. But I still believe that you could have a place in Overwatch. We could certainly use an Agent with your experience and expertise. Oh! But not _all_ your expertise, I mean, we’re not bringing Blackwatch back. Not that there was anything wrong with Blackwatch! Except for, uh, all the terrible parts.”

“…”

“What I’m saying is we could use an agent with your talents for stealth and infiltration, but we won’t be performing any, uh, assassinations. Not that we think that’s all you’re good for! You’re an excellent agent and we, uh, like you as a person, too. And want you to come back.”

“…”

“…I’m sorry, this isn’t going the way I’d hoped. Mr. Shimada, will you be rejoining Overwatch, violating the Petras Act?”

“…Ohmygod, Winston. Your _face_. Ahahaha! I’m totally fucking with you, by the way. I’m not mad at all, I promise. The best part about wearing a mask is being able to hide the shit-eating grin. I’m sorry I let you ramble for so long, but you were digging yourself a hole so nicely and I couldn’t bear to stop it. Of course I will be returning! I’m happy to help, my friend.”

“Friend? I’m sorry. Forgive my frankness, but you _are_ Genji Shimada, correct?”

“Who else would I be? However, I do understand your confusion. When we last met, I was suffering through a difficult period in my life. I have traveled extensively over these last many years, and with a great deal of work and patience, I have found harmony.”

“…Uh…oh. Well. That’s…good. Good for you.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I will be bringing my mentor with me. He’s a monk of the Shambali, and has become a dear friend.”

“The Shambali? My, you _have_ been busy. That isn’t a problem at all. A member of the Shambali would be most welcome here.”

“Excellent! I have some business to take care of in Japan, then Master Zenyatta and I will join you in Gibraltar.”

“Safe travels, Agent Shimada.”

“Genji out!”

* * *

Genji was alive.

Hanzo didn’t remember his retreat from Shimada Castle. He remembered returning to the shrine after the fight and going through the motions of his annual tribute, but everything after that was a blur. The flash drive in his pocket proved that he copied and deleted the security footage like he did every year, but he had no memory of the act. A storm churned inside him, thundering behind his ribs, lashing against his heart, raging within his soul. Only raw discipline kept the storm at bay, giving him the illusion of control as he fled across the Tokyo rooftops. It wasn’t until he was in his safehouse in Ueno that he came back to himself.

Genji was alive.

He raised the sake bottle to his lips before he even registered it was in his hands. He stopped and looked down at the bottle, then at his surroundings. The safehouse was a tiny studio apartment, a single room with a bathroom and a kitchenette. A neat futon sat in one corner, across from a desk, dresser, and a single chair, but the apartment was otherwise bare of furnishings or decoration. Most of his possessions sat in a duffle bag at the foot of the futon, ready for him to grab and go in case of an emergency. Did he check his perimeter? Had he been followed? As Hanzo let his gaze roam blearily over the room, he realized didn’t know. He couldn’t even say if he had entered his apartment through the door or the window. Well, if he had been followed by assassins, then so be it. Hanzo found he no longer cared. He clenched his hand around the sake bottle and drank.

Genji was alive.

He examined the bottle once again. Nope. Sake wasn’t strong enough for this. He set the bottle aside on the desk and dug the shōchū out of a cupboard in the sparsely stocked kitchenette. He cracked the seal and took two swallows right from the bottle, savoring the burn as it went down.

Hanzo dropped Storm Bow and his quiver on the futon and began to pace the length of the small room. He kept the shōchū in hand.

Genji was _alive._

The thought repeated itself over and over, blowing in circles in his mind until it grew into a whirling cyclone that consumed all else. Genji was alive. Genji was alive. Genji was alive.

Ten years of mourning, ten years of grief, ten years of penitence, ten years of self-loathing, was it all for nothing? A decade of regret and dishonor, and it was over a murder he hadn’t even done properly. What had Genji been doing all this time? Why reveal himself now?

_“You think you honor your brother Genji with incense and offerings? Honor resides in one’s actions.”_

The storm inside him flared with rage at the memory.

How dare he? How dare Genji scorn the respect Hanzo had given him! Did he not realize what Hanzo was doing? The shame he had taken upon himself to preserve Genji’s honor? Ten years he’d tortured himself, all for what? For Genji to put a sword to his throat and then claim forgiveness? Hah. Some forgiveness. Absolution granted at the edge of a blade.

To be fair, Hanzo thought grudgingly, that was very Genji-like. Asshole. Hanzo sighed and dropped down on the futon, putting his face in his hands. The shōchū sloshed in the bottle beside him.

Genji was alive.

_How?_

The question stopped Hanzo’s whirling thoughts cold.

How indeed? The last time Hanzo had seen Genji, he’d been quite convinced his brother was dead. Hanzo had made sure of that. He’d been quite…thorough.

The memories surged from where he normally kept them buried like a punch to the gut, riding on a wave of alcohol.

It had been a beautiful night. Calm. Peaceful. Something else Hanzo had ruined. They had talked. Talking gave way to arguing, which gave way to shouting. Hanzo made a demand. Genji turned his back on him. Turned his back on the clan. On his _family._ He gave Hanzo no choice.

_“I know you tell yourself that your brother disobeyed the clan and that you had to kill him to maintain order. That it was your duty.”_

Hanzo drank.

He could still feel the resistance as his blade cut through flesh and bone, still clearly see the shock on Genji’s face as his brother watched his own arm fall to the floor, hear Genji’s screams as he tried to stand after Hanzo had severed his legs. 

Even after Hanzo had incapacitated Genji, he hadn’t just killed him outright, though he had meant to. The Elders told him to bring back Genji’s head if necessary, so he planned on decapitating his brother. But seeing Genji, his little brother, screaming and sobbing on the ground had made Hanzo lose his nerve.

Even now, sitting on the futon with his head in his hands, the memory of Genji writhing in a pool of his own blood made bile rise to Hanzo’s throat. Or maybe that was the shōchū. He took another drink to keep it down, hoping it would drown the memories, too.

He should have killed Genji cleanly, but he couldn’t bring himself to take his blade to his brother one last time. Instead, like a coward, he called his dragons to finish the job for him and then turned away. He only looked back when the screams stopped and his twin spirit dragons had disappeared.

The sight of Genji lying motionless and disfigured had haunted Hanzo’s nightmares ever since. Genji, his brother, his only friend, dead by his hands.

Coward. Murderer. Kinslayer.

Except not, it would seem. He’d fucked up so badly that even his fuckups were fuckups. How very fitting, that he had spent ten years seeking redemption for something he hadn’t done.

A surge of nothing less than vanity welled within him in response to that thought.

No. _Impossible_. He had not failed. He murdered his brother and that was his burden to bear. This was an imposter, it had to be! A synthetic voice and a pair of brown-green eyes could be replicated. There was no way the stranger who attacked him could be Genji. This was obviously some kind of psychological warfare, some tactic to force Hanzo to lower his defenses.

He looked down at the shōchū bottle in his hands, half gone now. His stomach churned with the onslaught of alcohol and he registered that a fog was settling around the stormclouds of his mind. If this was an assassin’s attempt to trick Hanzo into making himself vulnerable, it was certainly working. He took another drink. Maybe if he killed himself with alcohol poisoning he would at least disappoint the assassin that would likely be coming to murder him tonight.

Hanzo considered the bottle and was sorely tempted to fall to apathy and spend the rest of the night drunk and miserable. He shifted and felt something hard under the futon beneath him. His laptop, memory supplied. For a moment, Hanzo deliberated just letting it be, but it was gradually becoming uncomfortable, so he finally reached under the futon to slide it out. Once it was in his hands, muscle memory made him turn it on and he stared blankly at the holographic projections that automatically activated upon startup.

He was already drunk, he reasoned, and he’d been miserable for the last ten years. On the off chance that this assassin masquerading as a dead man wasn’t going to kill him tonight, he should at least try to find out who this imposter was.

It took longer than Hanzo liked to admit to fish out the flash drive with the Shimada Clan security footage out of the pouch on his obi. With some navigation and another drink, he managed to connect the drive to the laptop and find a half decent image of the stranger. Hanzo only gave the footage a cursory glance as he worked. The memories of their fight and the stranger’s cutting words were still sharp in his mind, even piercing through the drunken fog that clouded his thoughts, and he didn’t want to examine them too closely. He didn’t want to see if the stranger was Genji’s height, if he held himself the same way his brother once did, if his body language was that of a dead man. Not yet. That would be a problem for the morning.

What mattered now is that he had footage of the stranger, images that he could cross reference and search across the web to find further footage of him. That armor was very distinct. If there were more pictures of this would-be assassin out there, he would find them. He took several clear screenshots and uploaded them into the web trawling program he'd obtained from unscrupulous means for such a purpose. He usually used it to find traces of himself or search for a target he'd been hired to locate, but this wouldn't be the first time he'd used it on a pursuer.

Several minutes and a fair number of fumbled keystrokes later, the program started running. It would be hours before the image trawler finished, and he had no more will or energy to continue being reasonably competent. Hanzo pushed the laptop away, limbs feeling slow and heavy. Satisfied that the laptop was safely out of harm’s way, he settled back on the futon and focused on drinking himself into oblivion.

And if assassins murdered him before dawn, at least Hanzo would die with the satisfaction of knowing that they were dishonorable cowards for killing a drunken man in his sleep.

At least he would finally find peace.

* * *

Neither Death nor Peace found Hanzo in the morning. Those two fair mistresses passed him by in the night, and instead left their less-reputable sister, Skullfucking Hangover. The bitch had brought him her usual gifts of migraines, dry mouth, and nausea, and Hanzo wanted more than ever to die. His skull felt two sizes too small for his brain and his stomach roiled and quavered unpleasantly with the slightest movement. His mouth tasted like something had sought refuge down his throat before dying of dehydration. He grimaced and tried to wipe at his face. The tacky sensation of dried saliva crusted around his lips and cheek from where he had drooled during the night. Outside, the sunlight filtered through the blinds, searing through his closed eyelids like a fucking supernova while the everyday sounds of a quiet morning in Ueno rattled around in his ears and split his head in half.

Oh gods and spirits. Maybe he really had been murdered in the night and this was Hell.

He seriously considered the concept for a moment before a more rational voice in his head reminded him that he had the same thought every time he got a hangover, and he’d best get off his ass and into the bathroom before he vomited on the futon again.

That thought got him to at least consider the possibility of moving, but it wasn’t until his stomach began churning dangerously did Hanzo get up, motivated by the desire to not clean puke out of his bedding today. He got to the toilet just in time to upend the few remaining contents of his stomach.

The sunlight slowly drifted across the wood floor as the morning dragged on, and Hanzo blearily watched the little patch of sunlight from where his head was pillowed on the toilet seat. He would have spent the rest of the morning that way were it not for the cramp starting in his neck, and he finally got to his feet.

His stomach had thankfully settled somewhat, but walking across the room to the kitchenette seemed like far too much work, so he drank tap water from the bathroom sink to get some hydration to combat the hangover. His hair hung around his face in a scraggly wave, crusted with dried sweat and grime, falling into his eyes as he drank.

_Disgusting._

He started up the shower, the water in the old building needing time to heat up, and deliberately avoided looking in the mirror as he stripped. He didn’t need to see his reflection to know what a disaster he was. Here he was, the former oyabun of the Shimada Clan, one of the most powerful men in Japan, reduced to a paranoid, slobbering alcoholic. How far the mighty had fallen.

By the time Hanzo was cleaned and dressed with brushed teeth, he felt marginally better. The migraine had faded to a dull throb, and he felt close to human again.

Well, he’d done his best to put his problems off last night, and now it was time to face them.

He started the rice cooker, found some leftover natto in the fridge, and set some tea to steep. The familiar motions of making breakfast were comforting, and kept his hands busy as he replayed the events of last night through his mind.

The shrine, the assassin, the fight, the dragons, the razor edge of death pressed against his throat, the refusal, the mask, the revelation, the final parting words of a dead man.

The more Hanzo thought about it rationally, the surer he felt that the stranger could not have been Genji. Genji was dead, torn apart by katana and dragon fangs. This assassin was a fool to try and trick Hanzo in such a way, on the anniversary of his brother’s death.

But…what about the dragons? Only a Shimada could control the dragons. If his attacker had not been Genji, then who? Hanzo glanced at the laptop and saw that it had finished running the image search, but paid it no heed for the moment. Now that he was thinking rationally, there was a simpler way to learn the stranger’s identity.

Hanzo made the futon, discarding the soiled bedding, and retrieved his tea. He held the warm mug in his hands and knelt on the futon, adjusting his posture to a proper seiza. Calm. He needed calm if he wanted to communicate with his spirit guardians. Despite the over indulgence in shōchū, having a night to sleep had helped clear his head. He took a deep breath, in through his nose, held it for a second, then released it through his mouth and held that, too. Then another. In deep, hold, out slow, hold. Again. Then again.

The dragons would recognize one of their own. All he needed to do was ask, and he would have his answer. He let his mind fade into that place between places, somewhere not quite of this world and not quite Beyond, but lay somewhere within himself. The warmth of the tea faded as his mind drifted away from the consciousness of his physical form and he became aware of the twin nodes of raw power that lay on either side of his soul.

The dragons did not speak, not in the same way mortals did, so Hanzo formed his question into a thought without words. He reached out toward his spirit twins, and humbly asked his question made of confusion, pain and regret.

He felt nothing in return.

Only discipline kept Hanzo rooted in his meditation. He knew the dragons were there, could feel the raw power of their presence, but he could not feel their minds, as if they had been struck silent. Or as if they were shielding themselves from him. He sent another thought, wordless fear and concern. Had the green dragon somehow injured them? What could he do to help them? Could a spirit become injured? Crippled? Killed?

This time, the sense of nothing changed, and instead of a lack of response, there was a vague sense of cold acknowledgement, then a shift of sapphire scales turning away with stony indifference.

Hanzo got the distinct impression that his dragons were ignoring him.

Shock broke him from his meditation and he stared down at his tattoo, as if it would give him an answer. This had never happened before; the dragons had always responded to him. What did this mean? Why? Would he still be able to call upon them in battle? He'd never heard of a dragon refusing the call of its mortal companion.

Gods, was he that much of a failure that even his dragons shunned him?

He held tight to his tea and pursed his lips. If his dragons wanted to ignore him, then fine. That was their prerogative, and he would deal with that later. One step at a time. His first order of business was to determine who the stranger was, and he would do so with or without spirit help. He retrieved the rest of his breakfast and pulled the laptop to him.

The program had finished running during the night and presented a list of images that matched the chrome and green armored stranger. Hanzo pulled up the results and tapped on the first image. The perspective suggested it may have been from a personal camera, and showed the distinct armor of the stranger, who looked to be conversing with an omnic. They were in a snowy, mountainous landscape, walking along a paved road that wound up a mountainside, and were accompanied by a number of other omnics dressed similarly to the one Genj– the stranger was speaking to.

He swiped to the next image. The stranger was with another omnic, or perhaps the same omnic, this time in a crowded city, with lush, tropical greenery around them. The architecture and landscape suggested southern Asia. Perhaps Vietnam? Laos?

Hanzo mixed the natto with his rice and examined the photo. He had assumed the stranger was wearing some kind of battle armor, but this showed Genj– the stranger appearing relaxed and casual, looking to be purchasing something from a vendor. He moved to the next picture.

Alright, this time he was definitely with the same omnic. They were somewhere dry and barren, rolling sand dunes in the distance as they appeared to be talking to a bystander. There was a camel present in the photo. Were they in the Middle East? Egypt, perhaps? Hanzo checked the dates on all three photos. He couldn't be positive with the varied sources of the images, but they all appeared to be within the last few years. There were more of the same after that, his broth– the stranger traveling with the omnic, mostly in the background of candid shots, doing a lot of talking, walking, or a myriad of other innocuous things. The stranger had certainly done a fair amount of traveling.

Hanzo stopped as he found an image that broke the trend of “stranger with omnic in far-off location.” The image was a blurred shot of what was probably Genj– the stranger’s head. Hanzo quickly clicked on it to find the source and was surprised to find that the result was a news article, the headlining image showing the stranger in a metropolis fighting...was that Doomfist? Hanzo looked closer. It was. That was Akande Ogundimu, still wearing the Doomfist gauntlet, before he was detained by Overwatch.

Hanzo squinted at the article, trying to make out the words, but the small text remained stubbornly blurry. Sighing with defeat, Hanzo set the rice down and reached for his quiver, pulling a pair of half-moon reading glasses from a side pocket. Damn it all. He started going far-sighted three years ago, and though he stubbornly tried to use his glasses as little as possible, small text eluded him. He perched the glasses on his nose and examined the article again.

September 23, 2069. Seven years ago. The day that Overwatch detained Akande. According to the article, the Overwatch agents sent to arrest Akande were Tracer, the intelligent gorilla Winston, and an agent only known as Dragonblade. More pictures interspersed the article, images from the fight that wrecked downtown Numbani. At the bottom of the article was an embedded video. Hanzo hesitated only a little before clicking it.

The quality was poor, likely a bystander’s cellphone, being shakily recorded through a window of one of the skyscrapers near the fight. Winston and Tracer were already down on the ground, but a flash of movement caught the recorder’s attention and they raised the camera just in time to see the white and green armored stranger, this Dragonblade, dart across the side of the skyscraper on the other side of the street, running across the vertical surface as if it were flat ground. Akande threw a car door at him and Dragonblade dodged agilely, then joined Tracer in the fight against the Scourge of Numbani. He fought with shuriken and a wakizashi at his waist, a sheathed nodachi on his back.

No doubt, this was definitely the stranger from the castle. Dragonblade, the article called him. It was true that the dragons were easier to channel through a weapon, and Genji had favored blades longer than a katana in their training…

No. Impossible.

Akande punched the ground, and Hanzo was able to see the legendary power of the Doomfist as the ground itself fissured and split. Dragonblade leapt into the air to avoid the impact and Akande threw an entire four-door sedan at him. Dragonblade drew the nodachi from his back and sheered the car cleanly in two. From the camera’s viewpoint, however, Hanzo could see Akande had expected this, using the car as a distraction to close the distance between them. The Doomfist gauntlet struck Dragonblade solidly, throwing him halfway down the block to collide with a parked car, where he crumpled and fell still, his body sparking.

“No!”

Hanzo leaned sharply closer to the screen, the cry ripping itself involuntarily from his throat. He hastily pulled back, realizing what he was doing.

This was not his brother. This was not Genji! This was some assassin, some Overwatch agent, masquerading as his brother in an attempt to…to…

 _To what?_ a voice inside him asked. _What is the point?_

Hanzo didn’t know. With a growl of frustration, he threw himself back into the results of the scan. There were more pictures of Dragonblade with the omnic, some more candid shots from the fight in Numbani, and pictures of what appeared to be another Overwatch mission, this time accompanied by a blonde woman dressed as a combat medic with mechanical wings.

He added the term “Dragonblade” to the search parameters and found more of the same until one image made him freeze and his heart skipped a beat.

The source was a news article from 2068, one year before Akande’s arrest, detailing an incident in Venice. The image was of a lithe figure sprinting down a darkened street, his body covered in black and red cybernetics. He wore a metal mask over his lower face and around his head, but his eyes, hair, and left arm were bare. His skin was crisscrossed with a multitude of scars and his hair was fashioned in a familiar, spikey style. And his eyes…they had some sort of implant or contacts that made them glow a bright crimson, but Hanzo would recognize those eyes anywhere. Those were the same eyes that had followed him all his life: tagging along behind him as an eager child, rolling at him as a rebellious teenager, glaring defiantly at him with katana drawn. Looking out at him through a mask of green on a moonlight night with sakura blossoms in the air.

_Gods and spirits. Genji was alive._

Hanzo sat back, head reeling, and almost fell apart all over again.

He took his glasses off to rub at his eyes before replacing them and forced himself to look at the picture again. There were tubes and wires visible along Genji’s body, connecting to the back of his neck, along his spine and torso, and even present along his arms. He examined the cybernetics, comparing it to his memory of what he had left remaining of Genji’s broken body that night ten years ago. They matched. Is this what Genji had become? It wasn’t bad enough that Hanzo tried to murder him, instead he had disfigured him and turned him into this…thing? He was forced to suffer as this half man, half machine monstrosity, looking like something out a nightmare, until he sealed himself away in a prison of chrome and green armor.

Hanzo felt sick.

“…what have I done?”

It was not the first time he’d asked himself the question.

Why…after all this time, why did Genji reveal himself now?

_“The world is changing once again, Hanzo, and it’s time to pick a side.”_

What did that mean? What side? Not the Shimada Clan, surely; there was no place for either of them left there. Overwatch? But Overwatch was disbanded years ago.

Hanzo took a moment then to process the fact that his brother had been an Overwatch agent. It didn’t seem possible. In hindsight, it made sense that Overwatch would save Genji, sure; the Elders had accused Genji of selling Clan secrets to the peacekeeping organization, after all. But actually working for them? No. Why would Overwatch take in and trust a former yakuza heir, especially one as irresponsible and selfish as his brother?

Hanzo leaned back over the laptop and began reading the article on Venice.

Oh. _Oh._

Genji wasn’t Overwatch. He was a Blackwatch Operative.

That made much more sense.

The article was a report on the Talon/Blackwatch fight that tore apart the streets of Venice eight years ago, the incident that brought Blackwatch into the public eye. Hanzo vaguely remembered when it happened, but he’d been neck deep in an assassination contract for a Columbian cartel at the time and hadn’t paid much attention to the incident.

Hanzo frowned and began searching through the scant existing footage of the Venice incident. It seemed there had been a total of four Blackwatch Agents involved, of which only Genji seemed to have gotten out of anonymously. He was only listed as an “unknown Blackwatch Operative,” in the article, and there was no clear connection between himself and his “Dragonblade” persona he adopted for more public Overwatch missions.

He began cross referencing the three other agents in an attempt to find their current whereabouts. There was Gabriel Reyes, of course, the infamous head of Blackwatch and former commander of Overwatch during the Omnic Crisis, killed in the explosion at the Geneva Headquarters. Dr. Moira O’Deorain was also present, and a quick search revealed she was currently the acting Minister of Genetics in Oasis, Iraq. Oasis was untouchable, which is likely why O’Deorain had retreated there.

The final member of the Venice strike team was Jesse McCree.

From the footage of the Venice incident, Hanzo could see McCree was a large, hairy, definitely American…cowboy? Were there even cowboys in America anymore? He wore dark combat fatigues and body armor along with a wide-brimmed black hat and a cigarillo. Wait. Was he actually smoking during a firefight? What was this man thinking?

There was a surprisingly large amount of information on McCree publicly available. Digging through the information lead to a U.N. Summit that had been called specifically to discuss Blackwatch and Overwatch, during which a great deal of information had been made public on a number of Blackwatch Agents. He had been Second in Command of Blackwatch, right beneath Reyes, and had been an agent for fifteen years, though there appeared to be no information on him before his recruitment into Blackwatch. His list of deeds during Blackwatch was…extensive. Espionage, infiltration, assassination, abduction…the man was obviously very skilled. Records showed he left Overwatch several months before the explosion at Geneva, and from there information became less clear.

There were reports of theft, property damage, arson, murder, vandalism, terrorism, the list went on and on, but the sources for his crimes grew increasingly spotty. The news reports on him were frequent, but eyewitness accounts didn’t always match the reported facts. There weren’t many pictures of him after he left Blackwatch, either, though it seemed he’d kept his dedication to his ridiculous cowboy aesthetic. He’d traded the black hat for a wide, brown Stetson, and now seemed to consistently wear a red cape around his shoulders.

Ridiculous.

The most clear recent image was his wanted poster. If the image was accurate, McCree’s beard had filled in with age, giving him at rough, scruffy appearance, and he had dark eyes that squinted out from under the shadow of his hat. He had a strong, square jaw that might be considered handsome were it not for the scowl on his face. His bounty was currently marked at $60,000,000, dead or alive, a number that caught even Hanzo’s interest. His location was currently unknown, though there had been reported sightings of him throughout North America over the past few years, from Edmonton to Guatemala.

Hanzo regarded those dark eyes for a moment, then closed the window and switched back to the image search. He pulled up the last result. He expected more of the same images from Blackwatch or Overwatch.

Instead, it was a blurry image, likely from a traffic camera, of Genji and McCree seemingly talking on a dark, empty street, but McCree was wearing the red cape and wide Stetson, not the darker outfit Hanzo had seen from the Blackwatch footage. He checked the source and froze.

Five days ago. McCree and Genji had been talking in New Orleans, USA, five days ago, and then Genji had shown up in Hanamura.

There _must_ be a connection.

Perhaps he should pay this McCree a visit. Maybe he knew what Genji’s plan was. And if not? Well… It had been a while since Hanzo’s last assassination contract, and his funds were getting low. Worst case scenario, Hanzo could just collect on the outlaw’s bounty. The problem with freelance work was it didn’t always provide a stable income.

“Honor resides in one’s actions” was it? Then perhaps it was time for Hanzo to take action of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for reading! This chapter came pretty quick because I already had most of it written out, but I haven't started on the next chapter. I plan on having it up in September at the latest!


	3. Mutually Beneficial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Freelancer and an Outlaw meet.

“Winston, my friend! It has been far too long!”

“Reinhardt! It’s good to hear from you.”

“Rein! It’s been ages, luv!”

“And little Miss Oxton! Good, good! So the word is out, then? Overwatch is truly returning?”

“Yes, it is. The world needs heroes again.”

“Whether it wants them or not, to be bloody honest. We’re here to save the world, no matter what! We’re still not public, what with Petras and all, but if we have more days like today, I don’t know how long that’s going to last. Winston and I are on our way back from an attempted museum heist in Numbani, and I’m pretty sure we ended up on a lot of security cameras!”

“Haha! It sounds like you have already started the good fight! Fear not, you shall have my shield and hammer beside you soon! Lieutenant Wilhelm, signing off!”

“Cheers! That was lovely! I’d hoped Rein would come back. I missed him something awful.”

“Oh, hold on, it looks like he’s calling back. Yes? Winston, here.”

“You better know what you’re doing.”

“Who…Miss Brigitte? I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve been working beside Reinhardt for the past six years, and I promise you that he’s not letting on how much he’s actually worried about this. He’s only doing this because he thinks it’s his duty to answer the call to arms no matter what, but I’m afraid it’s going to be too much for him! He’s over sixty now, Winston, but he still acts like he’s a young man! He’s going to get himself killed out there!”

“I understand your concerns, Brigitte, and I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. Does Reinhardt know you feel this way?”

“Yes. We’ve discussed it. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t let him do anything reckless!”

“Thank you, Miss Lindholm. I’ll be sure to keep him safe.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll do what’s necessary, like any good commander.”

“I beg your–”

“ _I_ will keep him safe. I’m coming, too, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“W–well, I…that’s…I mean…”

“Welcome to Overwatch, Agent Lindholm! We’re lucky to have you, luv!”

“Thanks, Lena. I knew you’d see it my way. Have you heard from Papa at all?”

“Torbjorn? No, we haven’t.”

“I don’t expect you will. He has some pretty strong opinions about how Overwatch handled his and Reinhardt’s ‘mandatory retirement.’”

“Understandably so. But that was the old Overwatch. Things are going to be different this time around.”

“I hope so, for your sake. We’ll see you soon. Agent Lindholm, over and out!”

* * *

“There he goes!”

“After him!”

McCree took cover behind a dumpster just in time for a bullet put another hole through the trailing edge of his serape. He crouched low and checked his belt. Dammit. Only two flashbang grenades left. With few other options, he threw one back into the alley and got the satisfaction of hearing his pursuers shout in alarm and pain. It earned him enough time to dart out from his cover, round the corner into the busy street, and take off at a dead sprint.

Damn it all. He’d lasted a whole week without any further incident in New Orleans before he finally made the mistake of entering the French Quarter and getting spotted by a few unreasonably observant members of the Gammarano Family. McCree had tried to put his silver tongue to use and talk his way out, but the situation had quickly devolved to fighting. When the guns came out, McCree made a run for it.

Another two shots went off behind him and bystanders began to scream and run at the sound of gunfire. Holy shit, were they really going to shoot into a busy street? A third shot behind him assured him that the Gammarano thugs genuinely did not give a damn about the civilians, so long as they got their mark. McCree cursed under his breath and veered away from the foot traffic, trying to draw their fire away from innocents. He scrambled around a parked car and ran headlong into a bushy-haired woman leaving a shop.

“Whoa, now!” They both stumbled, and McCree helped steady the woman, then quickly urged her back toward the shop she had left. “It ain’t safe out here, get to cover!”

She scanned him head to toe, lingering on his boots, his belt, his hat, then settling on his face. Her eyes went wide and a stricken look crossed her face.

“Jesse McCree. Oh God, it’s Jesse McCree! Police! _Police!_ ” She sprinted back into the shop, already pulling out her phone.

Great. Just peachy. He could see the headlines now: “Wanted Criminal Jesse McCree Instigates Gang Warfare in Streets – Bounty Raised to $65,000,000.”

At least he’d gotten her back inside. Another gunshot cracked behind him, taking out a chunk of brick over his shoulder, and McCree tore into a sprint again as the sound of sirens filled the air.

That was quick. Too quick. No cops could have possibly responded that fast. He risked glancing over his shoulder to see a handful of large blue and white drones swooping down from the air. Ah. Police hover drones. That explained it. It made sense that a big city like New Orleans had a drone system. They’d probably been activated by the gunshots back in the alley.

Fortunately, he’d had the wisdom to keep Peacekeeper holstered, so despite his wanted status, the police drones focused their attentions on the morons actively shooting into a crowded city street at ten in the fucking morning. McCree darted down a side street and left the chaos behind him. A few winding roads later, he stumbled to a walk, panting hard and out of breath. He looked around. He couldn’t see any sign of cops or mafia following him, but that didn’t mean he was safe. All he’d done was bought himself a little time. Pursuit or no, there was no way he could sprint all the way back to the motel. McCree lit a cigarillo and settled on not looking too terribly conspicuous, keeping to back roads and side streets.

He needed to get to his motel, grab his bug-out bag, and get out of Louisiana before more hell could rain down on his head. He didn’t have enough cash for a bus, much less a hyper train, and after the incident in Detroit, he’d sworn off hitchhiking. No, he’d have to resort to less-than-legal means again. Train security had increased after the Talon hyper train fiasco two months ago, but maybe he could sneak on a bus. Hey, he was on the coast, wasn’t he? Perhaps he could stowaway on a boat. Did New Orleans have a dock? Was that a thing? He’d do some quick research once he got back to the relative safety of the motel. Burying his nose in his phone was the last thing he wanted to do right now, when he needed to focus on keeping his eyes peeled for danger.

He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarillo and jumped when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. He snapped Peacekeeper out of her holder and aimed at…nothing. There was nothing there. Just a parked car and a blossoming magnolia tree, swaying in the breeze. Hell. He was jumping at shadows. He holstered Peacekeeper and put a little more speed in his gait.

God, the timing couldn’t be worse, too. Last night had been bad. Between phantom pain and nightmares, McCree hadn’t slept a wink. He was running off caffeine and adrenaline, but he knew the crash was coming and he wanted to be somewhere safe when it hit. Maybe he could grab another coffee at the motel and keep going another few hours.

His thoughts strayed briefly to the phone in his pocket. He could always call up Winston and–

No. McCree firmly clamped down on that thought. He was not going to call his old friends and drag them halfway across the world to bail his internationally wanted ass out of trouble. He wouldn’t do that to them. He was on his own.

At least he’d managed to stop the damn Overwatch Recall notifications on his phone.

He focused his thoughts, running through his tentative plan. Get to the motel, grab his shit, grab coffee, then secure transportation out of the city. Boats, maybe. He’d have to see.

He let out a sigh of relief when the shitty motel he’d been living at came into view. The motel was small, a local business instead of a chain, and it was the kind of seedy place that demanded cash payment up front. The brick walls were old and crumbling, and did little to hide the occasional divot that looked suspiciously like bullet marks. The curtains in every window were drawn, and the few cars in the parking lot were old junkers or missing license plates. A security camera sat on a street light on the edge of the parking lot, but it looked like it hadn’t been functioning for years, merely putting on the appearance of security. In the week he’d been here, he’d seen two drug deals made in this parking lot, a handful of stolen cars pass through, and watched a variety of prostitutes come and go. This place was most likely on the police’s radar as a trouble hot spot, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the cops came sniffing soon, looking for the wanted outlaw that they now knew was in the city.

McCree looked around; still no sign of being followed. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried to look relaxed and casual as he strolled up the stairs to his room on the second floor. He tapped the keycard to the door and the lock gave a whirr as the mechanism unlocked.

McCree slipped into the spartan room and gave a sigh of relief once the door locked behind him. Safe, if only for a moment. He grabbed his duffel bag and began stuffing his few scattered possessions back in, though most of his gear was still in the bag.

“Tell me what you know of Genji Shimada.”

The voice was as cold and sharp as a knife in the dark, and it stopped McCree just as effectively. He looked up from his bag slowly.

Standing in the shadows with his back against the far corner opposite the door was a man holding a sleek blue and silver bow, nocked and drawn with an arrow. The steel broadhead glimmered in the diffused light from the window. He was Asian, dressed in dark clothing that looked like a modern take on a traditional Japanese outfit, and had a tattoo on his left arm, a full sleeve of what seemed to be a dragon amid storm clouds. Even holding the bow at full draw, the archer’s thick arms held absolutely, perfectly still, coiled muscle working with effortless ease in a manner that spoke volumes to McCree about the kind of skill and training this man must have.

McCree slowly straightened up and raised his hands to either side of his head in surrender. How in the _fuck_ had he not seen this guy? It wasn’t like there was anywhere in the empty motel room for him to hide. Had he really been that distracted?

Fucking ninjas, came the thought, unbidden, along with several memories of Genji showing up in a similar unannounced fashion in McCree’s barracks.

“Whoa there, partner,” he said cautiously. “That arrowhead looks mighty sharp. You’re liable to take an eye out with that thing.”

“It will do more than that,” the archer scoffed. His tone was short and clipped, made more pronounced by his accent. “Tell me about Genji. Why did you meet one week ago?”

What the damn hell? How had someone actually spotted them? They’d been chatting in an empty street for less than ten minutes in the late hours past midnight.

“Well now, that depends on who wants to know,” McCree said. The stranger’s face was stern with sharp, chiseled features that would have definitely turned McCree’s head had he seen this man in another time and place. As things stood, the arrow pointed at his chest was much more distracting, but it still didn’t stop McCree from having the thought that a man this threatening didn’t have any goddamn right to look so attractive. “I get the feelin’ you ain’t in the Gammarano Family. You mind telling me who you are and why you’re threatening me in my own room?”

“You are in no position to be asking questions. Tell me!” the stranger barked.

“I think I’m in plenty good position to ask whatever I damn well please, thank you very much. Now, if you ain’t gonna answer my question, then I’m just gonna have to work it out myself,” McCree said. He started to take a step forward, but a sharp jerk of the bow as the archer shifted his aim from McCree’s heart to between his eyes made him freeze. He kept his hands up, careful to make no sudden movements.

“That’s alright, I can analyze ya from here,” his looked the stranger up and down, the wheels in his head turning, working out who his opponent was was while planning his escape. “Based on the style of that outfit and that accent, I’m gonna say you’re from Japan, yeah? Pretty anachronistic, by the way. You wear that all the time? I bet you stick out like a sore thumb. Try wearing that in downtown Shibuya and not getting judgy looks.”

The stranger narrowed his eyes.

“You do not know who I am, insolent fool. Stop wasting time and answer me!”

“Hold up, I ain’t finished,” McCree continued. “Then there’s that tattoo. Considerin’ the taboo on body art in Japan and how proudly you’re sporting that full sleeve, I’m gonna guess that you’re yakuza. You showed up in my motel room with no sign of forced entry, somehow fukkin’ ninja’d yourself in plain sight so I don’t see you until you’ve got an arrow in my face, and then start asking me about Genji, who happens to also be former yakuza with ninja training. With that in mind, the rest of the pieces fall in pretty easily. Some asshole with dragon tattoos, obviously highly trained in stealth and probably assassination, wearing absurdly traditional clothing, wielding an anachronistic weapon, asking about Genji with a whole lot of fucking attitude. Yeah, it ain’t hard to figure out. You’ve got sharper features than Genji’s baby-face, but I reckon I know who you are. So tell me, Hanzo Shimada, when did you figure out your brother ain’t dead?”

The surprise on Hanzo’s face was all the confirmation McCree needed to know he was right on the mark, but the expression quickly changed into a snarl. It was the only warning he got before the archer released the bowstring. The shot zipped past his head and the arrow smashed into the shitty motel TV behind him with the sound of shattering glass. The fletching flew close enough to cut a line across McCree’s cheek. He wiped at his face with his gloved hand and it left a smear of blood across the leather.

“I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and say you missed on purpose,” McCree said. “Be damn embarrassing to miss a stationary target ten feet away. Also, I better not have to pay for that TV.”

“Why did you meet with Genji?” Hanzo demanded, nocking another arrow.

“Ask nicely,” McCree teased. He kept his hands raised, but slowly inched them closer to his head and the knife hidden in the brim of his hat.

“Tell me!” Hanzo drew the bowstring back, those thick arms again making the action seem effortless.

“Hey, now. I said to ask–” McCree’s fingers found the hidden blade. “ _–nice!_ ”

He hurled the small bade at Hanzo. The archer side stepped the knife and loosed his arrow in retaliation, but McCree had already thrown himself into a side roll to avoid it. McCree came out of the roll on his feet and lunged at Hanzo, trying to close distance between them and take away the advantage of range from the archer. Hanzo twisted away from him, light on his feet despite his thick build. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and held it like a knife to stab at McCree.

McCree caught the arrow with his prosthetic hand and clenched his fist. The hydraulics within his arm crushed the shaft and steel broadhead with a squeal of metal. Without even dropping the remains of the arrow, McCree swung his metal fist at Hanzo. The archer jerked backward out of his reach, but was running out of space to retreat to, crowded against the back wall. He reached for another arrow.

McCree lunged forward and grabbed Hanzo around his middle. He used his momentum to his advantage and tackled him to the floor. He grinned. With his heavier weight, McCree was sure he had the upper hand. He grabbed at Hanzo’s wrists to pin him, and was surprised when Hanzo’s arms slipped out of his grasp and seized him instead. Hanzo’s knee snapped up and kicked hard at McCree’s midsection. McCree found himself thrown up and over, landing hard on his back with Hanzo above him.

On his back with a deadly assassin over him, McCree finally drew Peacekeeper. The click of her hammer cocking may have well been as loud as a gunshot to the two seasoned fighters, and they both froze. McCree half-lay on his back, propped up on his left elbow, Peacekeeper leveled directly between Hanzo’s eyes. His gloved hand was absolutely steady, only a feather light trigger squeeze away from sending Hanzo back to where the murderous bastard had tried to send Genji ten years ago.

For a split second, McCree thought he’d won. Hanzo was frozen in place, up on one knee above McCree, his gaze trained on Pacekeeper’s barrel. McCree started to smirk, but then the gunslinger felt the cold tip of a broadhead under his chin. His eyes dropped to find Hanzo’s bow nocked and drawn inches away from him. If he killed Hanzo, the archer would unerringly release the arrow into his throat. If the archer shot first, the impact alone would be enough to tighten McCree’s trigger finger and end Hanzo in return. They remained frozen in place, neither of them hardly daring to breathe.

Stalemate.

“Well now,” McCree broke the silence between them, but didn’t budge an inch. “Seems like we’ve hit an impasse.”

“Why did my brother meet with you last week?” Hanzo didn’t budge, either.

“You are starting to sound like a goddamn broken record, you know that?” A twinge was developing in his lower back, complaining about the awkward position, but he didn’t dare move. “I ain’t gonna say shit to you when there’s an arrow in my face, especially when you haven’t told me shit in exchange. Now why don’t we both put our weapons down and we can talk like rational human beings. You can ask me about Genji, and maybe you can tell me why I’m being besieged by Shimadas.”

For a moment, the archer remained completely still. Finally, he loosened his draw on the bowstring and the arrow slowly pulled away from McCree’s exposed throat. McCree slid his finger off Peacekeeper’s trigger and carefully lowered the hammer, then raised his arm to point the barrel at the ceiling and not Hanzo’s head. He let out a long breath.

“That’s better. How about we–”

He was cut off by the sound of wood splintering as something smashed hard into the motel door. A second impact immediately followed the first and cracks sprouted along the hinges of the door.

“Nowhere to run, McCree!”

McCree glanced quickly at Hanzo and caught his gaze. The archer raised an eyebrow. McCree knew next to nothing about Genji’s brother, other than the fact that he was set to lead the Shimada clan, but vanished after his attempt to murder Genji ten years ago, and now apparently wanted to know about Genji’s true fate. McCree decided to take a gamble and hope his luck held out.

“I’ll go right,” McCree said.

Another blow and the door caved in. Two men in suits, both built like brick shithouses, stood outside the broken remains of the door. They each held a pistol, and McCree could see more thugs behind them.

Hanzo didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge McCree’s words, but swung his bow to face the intruders. A wide grin split McCree’s face and he snapped Peacekeeper toward the door. He put a bullet through the head of the grunt on the right at the same time an arrow pierced the heart of the one on the left. The thugs crumpled to the ground and lay still.

They both dodged away from the door in opposite directions, McCree taking cover behind the air conditioning unit by the window and Hanzo crouching behind the bed. A spray of bullets tore into the room. From his current position, McCree could break through the front window and escape, but the door and the flying bullets were between Hanzo and the window, leaving the archer without an escape route. The man in question was pointing a drawn arrow toward the door without firing. For a split second, it looked as if his tattoos were glowing, but Hanzo only let the single arrow fly and McCree dismissed it as a trick of the light.

He could have left him. Hell, McCree probably should have left him. He looked over at the archer, Genji’s brother and murderer, shooting arrows at the door from a cramped position behind the bed, and cursed under his breath. Damn it all.

McCree pulled the last flashbang from his belt and let out a sharp whistle to catch Hanzo’s attention. He raised the grenade as soon as he caught Hanzo’s eye, then hurled it toward the open door. Shouts of surprise met his ears as the flashbang went off, and Hanzo used the distraction to bolt from cover and sprint toward McCree. He grabbed McCree’s bag as he passed it, tossing it to the gunslinger. He then leapt into the air, grabbed the curtain rod with both hands, and swung like a gymnast to slam both his feet into the window. McCree threw his serape over his face just in time to protect himself from the shattering glass, then slung his bag over his shoulder and clambered out the broken window after Hanzo.

The archer shot arrow after arrow at the cluster of thugs scrambling along the motel walkway, standing tall and backing toward the stairs. McCree crouched behind him and fired off five shots, taking out another handful of mafia grunts. He gave Hanzo’s back a sharp look, then fired off the last shot, intentionally grazing Hanzo’s right arm in doing so.

Hanzo shot him a dirty look over his shoulder.

McCree shrugged and gave him a smirk back.

“Oops.”

The grunts finally got themselves organized enough to take cover inside the motel room, shooting from around the door frame and through the broken window.

“I promise you,” Hanzo growled as he fired a strange arrow through the window that broke into several pieces and ricocheted around the broken motel room. “I will put an arrow through you for that.”

McCree opened his mouth to give a cheeky retort when a grenade flew through the window to clatter at their feet. With no time left to sprint for the stairwell, the pair both launched themselves over the railing and dropped from the second floor walkway to the ground below. Hanzo landed lightly, his cybernetic boots or feet or whatever the hell those were seeming to absorb the impact of the drop, but McCree felt a sharp spike of pain jolt through him as he landed hard and his left knee gave out.

The grenade went off above them, and McCree covered his head in an attempt to protect himself from the falling debris.

“Get up!” Hanzo ordered.

McCree grimaced and got back to his feet, but couldn’t help a heavy limp as his knee spiked with pain on every step.

“Fucked my bad knee up on the fall. Not gonna be able to run.”

“Tch,” Hanzo chided, but the archer rushed over and threw an arm around McCree, forcing him along none-too-gently. “This way, I have a car.”

The sounds of commotion were still raging behind them when Hanzo got them to a discreet silver sedan. McCree clambered into the passenger seat and threw his bag into the back as Hanzo leapt over the hood and darted into the driver’s seat.

Hanzo started the ignition and slammed the antigrav into gear. Bullets pinged off the exterior as the car lurched forward. They tore out of the parking lot just as the sirens from the police drones entered the scene.

McCree watched the rear window as the car rounded a corner and motel, mobsters, and drones vanished from view. He let out a breath and sank back into the passenger seat.

“Those men seemed quite excited to end your life,” Hanzo said conversationally, as if they hadn’t been trying to kill each other minutes ago.

“Yeah, I’m pretty good at pissing people off. This time I got the whole Gammarano mob family worked up.”

McCree looked around. The car was immaculate, the seats were either real leather or a really good substitution. It had that clean, unused smell that screamed “rental.” Looked like Hanzo wouldn’t be getting his deposit back.

“Marco Gammarano?” Hanzo scoffed. “He doesn’t hold as much influence as he thinks he does. They won’t bother to pursue us beyond the city limits.”

“I’d like to leave the entire state, if you don’t mind,” McCree said. “I’m sure the cops spotted me, and they’ll be all kinds of hot and bothered over it.”

“You need transportation,” Hanzo said, watching the road. “I need information. Perhaps we could barter an exchange?”

McCree snorted, but in truth this was a far easier way to get out of town than what he’d been planning. The price wasn’t bad either, so long as he didn’t give away any information that could come back and hurt Genji.

“Fine,” he said. “Get me the hell out of here and I’ll answer your questions.”

“Any particular destination in mind?” Hanzo asked.

“I don’t care, so long as it’s away from this fucking humidity.”

“North, then. Away from the coast,” Hanzo said, taking the freeway onramp.

Hanzo typed a few quick commands into the car’s onboard computer, then activated the autopilot and let the car merge into the I-10 Hyperlane. Now being controlled by the car’s autopilot, the car accelerated to well over 200mph and settled in beside the other computer-controlled vehicles in the hyperlane, reserved for high speeds deemed unsafe for a human to navigate. He adjusted his seat and leaned backward.

“How is your knee?”

McCree couldn’t fully stretch his long legs in the passenger seat, so he only gave a token attempt at trying.

“Still hurts,” he said, pushing his seat back as far as it would go. “I’ve knocked it around before, though. Nothing that a little ibuprofen and some rest won’t fix.”

“There’s a first aid kit in the glove compartment. It should have the medication you want. I also need to make use of it. It seems I have somehow acquired a wound,” Although Hanzo’s words were polite, his tone was absolutely icy. He pulled off his archery glove and slid down the right sleeve of his fancy gi, revealing the bullet graze McCree had given him, a blunt gash along his bicep. His right arm didn’t have the same tattoos as his left, though there were pale, raised scars on his shoulder in a shape McCree recognized as the Shimada clan seal, a dual dragon ouroboros.

“It seems your aim could use work, gunslinger.”

McCree chuckled and pulled the first aid kit out of the glove compartment. He rummaged around in it until he found a little package with two ibuprofen tablets. He popped them in his mouth and swallowed them dry, then handed the kit over.

“Nah, my aim’s just fine. Just wanted to keep you on your toes, is all. I gotta admit, I’m grateful you don’t have matching sleeve tats. It’d be a goddamn tragedy to damage a work of art like that.” McCree leaned back in the seat, watching Hanzo from the corner of his eye.

Hanzo cleaned and bandaged the graze with the practiced, easy motions of someone who had been treating their own injuries for a long time. His shoulders and biceps flexed as he finished wrapping the bandage, and McCree couldn’t help but let his gaze wander. For being such a bastard, Hanzo was unfairly attractive. His face was just as handsome in the light as it was in the shadows of the motel room, with sharp cheekbones, piercing brown eyes, and immaculately groomed beard and eyebrows. His shoulders and arms were thick in all the right places, framing broad pectorals that lead down to absolutely flawless abdominal muscles.

It was a damn shame that he was a murderous son of a bitch.

“Though, to be fair, you did nick me first.” McCree gestured to the scratch across his cheek where the arrow’s fletching had caught him.

Hanzo shot him a glare and shoved the rest of the first aid kit at him.

“You will not have the opportunity to shoot me again.”

“Alright, alright,” McCree conceded, not bothering with the scratch on his cheek and putting the first aid kit back in the glove box. “I confess it was an asshole move, especially when you were helpin’ me escape. You even grabbed my bag when you didn’t have to, and I’m grateful for that. I apologize for shooting you. And throwing a knife at you.”

Hanzo said nothing. He slid both sleeves of his gi back on, then turned his attention to the road ahead.

“That’s it? Not gonna accept my apology? Or even acknowledge it?” McCree felt his heart rate dropping as he finally started to relax. An ache started behind his eyes, creeping upward into his head, and he knew that the adrenaline crash was imminent.

“You can apologize by telling me about Genji.”

McCree let out a short, humorless bark of a laugh.

“You are a broken fucking record, you know that?” He dropped the back of his seat and made a show of laying down and getting comfortable. “You gonna put that arrow you promised through me if I take a nap?”

Hanzo’s lips thinned, but he finally gave a sharp shake of his head.

“Good. Because I’ve been awake for thirty-somethin’ hours and I’m way too exhausted to have this conversation right now.”

Folding his hands behind his head, McCree tipped his hat over his eyes and let sleep claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh. This chapter was 5k words of action and it was _hard._ Concrit and comments encouraged, as usual. I'm aiming to have the next chapter up in October, and I may also be starting a Blackwatch era fic, too! Keep an eye out for it, and you can always bother me on [Tumblr!](http://dabbledrabbleprose.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> _And look, I know Peacekeeper is a double action revolver and McCree doesn’t need to pull the hammer back before a shot, but you gotta give me props for dramatic effect, alright?_


	4. Making Friends in Low Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which questions are answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, guys. It's been six months. I know it's been a hot minute, but I swear I'll never abandon this fic! Thanks for sticking with me!

“So, I have a little problem.”

“Torbjorn! I’m, uh, surprised to hear from you. What kind of little problem?”

“The kind of little problem that requires a stealth extraction from these coordinates.”

“Athena, can you bring those coordinates up?”

“Of course, Winston.”

“Thank you, Athena. Okay, let me see here…Yes, we can come get you, but I’m going to need to know what we’re up against.”

“You’re not up against anything! Just a handful of idiots who think they understand how a damn omnic works better than I do!”

“And this requires a stealth extraction because…?”

“Hey! What did I tell you? Stop it! You don’t have to pick every damn flower we come across! Put that down!”

“Torbjorn?”

“No! Don’t give it to me, you damn rust bucket! Put it down!”

“Uh…”

“I need a stealth extraction because I have a malfunctioning omnic that will cause mass panic if it’s spotted, and I don’t have the patience to put up with another scene. Hey! Leave that squirrel alone! No, we can’t bring it with us!”

“A malfunctioning omnic?”

“Aye. I’ve never seen these behavior patterns in this model before, and I want to find out what’s causing the malfunction and if this is the beginning of another wave of Omnium behavior modifications. No, I don’t want a leaf! Stop collecting things!”

“I can certainly send Tracer with a transport. Will…uh…will you be returning to the Watchpoint? Are you answering the recall, then?”

“What? You’re at Gibraltar, right? I don’t want this thing loose! If it reverts back to its original programing, it could cause damage and death on a massive scale! The Rock is isolated enough that I can keep it contained. Now come get me! Argh! Get your bird away from–”

“Torbjorn? Agent Lindholm? …Agent Tracer, do you copy?”

“Loud and clear, Winston! What can I do for you, luv?”

“Fire up the Orca. We’re going to Sweden.”

* * *

At least the cowboy didn’t snore.

Hanzo wondered at first if McCree was just pretending to doze to put off conversation, but the man appeared to be well and truly asleep. His breathing was slow and deep, and though he didn’t snore, his heavy breath was still loud, making a huff that echoed inside his hat with every exhale. 

McCree must be either idiotically trusting or well and truly exhausted to allow himself to be put in such a vulnerable state with a dangerous stranger so easily. Despite how easy it would have been to insult the cowboy’s intelligence, Hanzo suspected it was the latter. He hadn’t missed the bags under McCree’s eyes or the tension around his shoulders. McCree’s admission of his lack of sleep notwithstanding, all signs spoke of a man who had been pushing himself too hard for too long.

Well. That wasn’t his problem. He simply needed to get McCree to safety so he could learn what he needed about Genji. McCree wanted out of the state, and it took less than an hour to follow I-55’s hyperlane out of Louisiana into Mississippi, but Hanzo saw no reason to awaken McCree so soon. The man was likely to be more agreeable after getting a good rest, so he let the autopilot have full control. He hadn’t given the car’s autopilot any further instruction other than “North” and “Fast,” so the car stayed on the hyperlane until instructed otherwise. 

Hanzo was left with time on his hands. There really wasn’t more he could do to treat the wound on his arm with the limited resources the first aid kit supplied, but he fiddled with the bandage anyway. He leaned into the back seat to secure Storm Bow in her case and lock his quiver. He scrolled through screens on his phone, moving assets and finances around through off-shore accounts, and briefly considered ditching the rental car for a different one, but ultimately decided that the Gammarano gang was a low enough threat that swapping cars was far more trouble than it was worth. He picked at where he’d torn a cuticle during the fight, checked over his cybernetic boots for any glass from the window he’d kicked in, and continued fussing and fidgeting as the scenery flew by through tinted windows. The minutes ticked into hours, leaving Hanzo with plenty of time to think. Too much time to think.

_Genji._

What was his brother thinking? What was he planning? Why talk with this strange American then fly halfway around the world to stage a fake fight with his mourning, dishonored brother? It was, after all, a fake fight, Hanzo realized now. At no point had Genji actively tried to kill him. He’d followed him to the shrine, made his presence known when Hanzo had called him out, and then tried to confront him verbally. Hanzo had been the one to fire the first arrow. Even when Genji had emerged victorious and held Hanzo helpless, he had withdrawn his blade and refused to spill his brother’s blood. When he turned Hanzo’s dragons against him, he did so in a way that they did him no harm.

Hanzo shivered and a different kind of doubt crept into his heart. He’d tried to summon the dragons earlier, back when he was pinned down with McCree inside that motel room. He’d been trapped, with no reason to think that McCree would assist him, and the dragons had refused his call.

He rubbed his left arm through the sleeve of his kyudo gi, as if the motion would soothe the spirits tied to the tattoo. They’d been silent ever since the fight with Genji. They’d refused his summons, and ignored him when he sought them out through meditation. He knew they were uninjured, they’d made that clear the first night when he was worried Genji’s dragon had wounded them. They were just ignoring him. Even when his life was in danger, they didn’t heed his call.

_Unworthy._

The thought pierced Hanzo’s heart with a pain as great as any wound. He was undeserving of the dragon’s power. That was the only explanation. They’d touched Genji’s spirit guardian and realized what a failure Hanzo had become compared to his brother. He should be grateful the dragons hadn’t simply abandoned him outright, though why they would continue to cling to their failed host was a mystery to him.

Maybe they couldn’t. Perhaps they were trapped in their partnership with Hanzo, and only he could release them.

Black despair clutched around his heart. He should do it. If the dragons wanted to be free of him, then he wouldn’t keep them chained to an unworthy, disgraced heir to a throne that no longer existed.

He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing, in and out, and found himself matching his pace to dozing outlaw’s loud breath beside him. Well, fine. It was as good a focus as any, he supposed. He went through the motions of his usual meditation, letting his mind go blank so he could sink into that place between places in his soul. Or he tried to, at least. The cowboy was too loud beside him and reeked of sweat and stale smoke. The car vibrated every time they passed a larger vehicle, the heavier antigrav reverberating through the small sedan until they were out of range. The temperature was slightly too warm, the sun shone too bright on his closed eyes, his arm still stung from where the cowboy shot him, and through it all, his soul churned with fear and doubt and regret and shame. 

Hanzo clenched his fists at his sides and let out a growl of frustration. He had to. He had to clear his mind and meditate. Otherwise he’d never be able to free his trapped dragons, his beloved faithful companions, the siblings to his soul. He let out a harsh breath and tried all the basic meditation techniques he could remember: visualizing a golden sphere, repeating a mantra, focusing on his heartbeat, concentrating on nothing, everything, anything, but to no avail. He was clinging to a rock in a turbulent sea of his own mind, buffeted by waves of his own thoughts, trapped within the raging storm of his own soul.

Desperately, he called out with his thoughts, though he knew he was far from achieving the meditation necessary to commune with his spirit companions.

 _I do not ask for your forgiveness,_ he thought, _but if you wish to leave me to my dishonor, tell me how I may release you._

Something shifted beneath his sea of thoughts, twin leviathans uncoiling in the deep. He could not reach them, could not calm his mind sufficiently to drop beneath the waves to the calm silence of the place between places.

So they rose up to meet him instead.

Twin minds burst through the surface of his thoughts to press against his consciousness. Hanzo jerked in the seat and gave a sharp gasp as the dragons’ presence slammed against his own, crowding him inside his own head. He was drowning from the inside out, suffocating under the crushing weight of sapphire coils as his soul lay pinned between them. Their minds connected to his, and he was struck with a resounding wave of disappointment, laced with the greenish tinge of disgust and a crimson edge of frustration. 

Hanzo couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. All he could do was offer a tentative, wavering tendril of thought.

_I…release…_

Emotion lashed out at him like a physical blow. Saffron irritation crushed against him before he could finish the thought, followed by the solid weight of disapproval, overwhelming his senses until he could think of nothing else.

Then it was gone, leaving Hanzo’s head echoing with the absence of their presence.

For a moment, he thought it had worked. Just before his heart could shatter into a thousand pieces, he felt them, back in their usual spots deep in the place between places, on either side of his soul. 

They hadn’t left him. They had, in fact, stopped him from trying to release them and given him a good scolding for it. If nothing else, Hanzo had that. His dragons were unhappy with him, that much was obvious, but they still wanted to be with him.

Hanzo sank back in the seat and let out a sigh. The encounter had been draining, every muscle feeling sapped of strength. Perhaps a nap would do him good.

McCree snorted in his sleep beside him.

Ah. Right. The Outlaw.

At some point during Hanzo’s failed meditation, McCree’s hat slid off his face. In the light, he could get a better look at him. He was sprawled in the chair, his legs bent awkwardly as he tried to stretch out in a seat too small for his long legs and broad build. He had a square jaw with a wide mouth and crow’s feet on the corners of his eyes. The beard was less unruly than in McCree’s wanted poster, though the edges were scraggly and uneven, and could definitely use some cleaning up. His face had lost that tense, pinched nature he’d had while awake, and now rested in a relaxed expression. He could have been handsome, Hanzo supposed, were his mouth not half open and currently drooling a string of saliva into his beard. 

They passed a massive freight truck, the small sedan vibrating harshly as it passed the larger anti-grav, but McCree didn’t react, still very much sound asleep.

That was a small blessing, at least, but it meant that Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to take some rest of his own. He would stay to monitor the autopilot and keep an eye on McCree. Just in case.

He folded his arms and sat back. The encounter with McCree hadn’t gone anything like he’d planned. He’d expected some resistance, a token fight that Hanzo would easily win, and then the cowed American would tell him everything he wanted to know. He didn’t expect McCree to be nearly so capable in a fight, and didn’t expect him to be far more intelligent than he looked. In hindsight, that should have been obvious, Hanzo grudgingly admitted to himself. His intel said McCree had been a high ranking member of Blackwatch, after all. Hanzo’s arrogance had gotten the better of him, and he’d been a fool to underestimate him. He would not make the same mistake twice.

The afternoon faded into evening, and Hanzo merged out of the hyperlane and disengaged the autopilot. If the cowboy was going to remain obstinate and stubborn, perhaps it was time to try persuading with honey instead of vinegar. Hanzo took an offramp and entered the city proper.

“McCree.”

The cowboy continued to doze.

“McCree,” Hanzo tried again, louder. Nothing.

“ _Wake up,_ ” He gave the dozing man beside him a swat.

McCree snorted and blinked his eyes open, staring blearily up at the sunroof for a moment before sitting up. He ran a hand over his face and grimaced when he found the dried drool in his beard.

Hanzo’s lip curled in disgust.

“Where are we?” McCree asked, peering through the windows at unfamiliar skyscrapers.

“Minneapolis.”

McCree gave a start. “What day is it?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hanzo rolled his eyes. “We’ve only been on the road for eight hours. We’ve been in the hyperlane the entire time, so we’ve been keeping to around two hundred miles per hour most of the drive.”

“So, what’s in Minneapolis?”

“Nothing in particular,” Hanzo spotted a hotel, part of a chain well known for luxury and comfort. Perfect. “But it is getting late and we are both going to need somewhere to sleep. I don’t know about you, but I could also do with a good meal.”

“So long as you’re buyin’.”

Hanzo pulled the car to a stop in front of the hotel and handed the keys to the valet before he shouldered his non-descript weapon case, which looked more like a large backpack than anything else, and pulled his single luggage case out of the trunk.

“Your bags, sir?” An omnic bellhop stepped forward helpfully with a luggage cart.

“We’re fine,” Hanzo barked and strode past the bellhop without so much as a glance.

“Thank y’kindly, sir,” McCree drawled behind him, voice smooth and calm. “But we don’t have much luggage and we’re perfectly happy to carry our own things. Have a nice day.”

Hanzo let out a huff as McCree’s long strides caught up with his brisk walk.

“That was unnecessary,” he said. “And dangerous. You draw attention to yourself.”

“It’s only dangerous if the attention is bad,” McCree smiled. “A little courtesy can go a long way.”

Hanzo gave him an unimpressed look, but had to direct his attention to the clerk at the front desk.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” The bright, bubbly young woman greeted them with a warm smile that was likely fake, but at least was a good imitation of sincere. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No. We require rooms for one night,” Hanzo said.

“Of course, sir. For tonight?” She asked.

“Obviously,” Hanzo said icily.

“Let me see what I have available,” The clerk seemed unconcerned with Hanzo’s cold tone, but her automated smile became less warm and a little more fixed in place as she tapped on the computer’s interface. 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” McCree leaned one arm casually against the front desk countertop.

The clerk glanced up briefly from the holoscreen. 

“It’s Kelly, sir.”

“Kelly,” McCree gave a smile that was all warm honey and rainbows. “Thank you so much, Kelly. If you don’t terribly mind, could you do us a favor and find a room that allows a gentleman to smoke?”

“Let’s see…It looks like I only have one room that allows smoking, a single room with two queens.”

“A single room? Not a suite?” Hanzo scowled.

“I’m afraid that’s all I have available.”

“That’ll do just fine, Kelly. Unless my friend here has any objections?” McCree raised an eyebrow at Hanzo.

Hanzo had been hoping for a two room suite so he’d be able to have some privacy and security during the night. At least with a single room, he’d be able to keep an eye on McCree so the outlaw didn’t run and vanish before answering Hanzo’s questions.

“That is acceptable,” he conceded. 

“There now, that sounds like a deal to me. We’ll take it. Thank you for your help, Kelly,” McCree gave the clerk a charming grin and her fixed customer service smile warmed into something more genuine.

“Of course! It’s no trouble at all. May I have your names, please?”

“James Martinez,” McCree said smoothly.

“Haru Watanabe,” Hanzo said, and handed over a credit card with the same alias. 

Kelly processed the transaction and handed back the card with two room keys. 

“Breakfast is served in the dining area on the first floor between six and ten, room service is available twenty-four hours a day. Check out time is at eleven. Call the front desk if you have any questions or concerns, and enjoy your stay!” 

“Thank you, Kelly,” McCree tipped his hat and gave her a wink. “You have a good evenin’.”

Hanzo waited until they were in the privacy of the elevator before rounding on McCree.

“You are a fool. You are loud and colorful, and make yourself too obvious. Is the concept of discretion completely unknown to you? Both the clerk and the bellhop are sure to remember and recognize us now. It’s a miracle no one has cashed in on your bounty yet.”

McCree leaned against the elevator wall, kicking back one long leg, and watched Hanzo’s scolding with a smile.

“Sometimes trying to stay unseen is worse than being visible. Both those two will remember me as friendly and charming.”

“Hah,” Hanzo scoffed. “You give yourself too much credit.”

“Friendly and affable, then,” McCree amended. “It draws just as much attention by being an asshole, by the way. Maybe even more. If I’d been broody and mean, that puts people on edge and makes ‘em suspicious. Then if some cop came sniffing around, looking for Jesse McCree, they’d have no hesitations about giving me up. But the friendly, likable James Martinez? Nah, can’t possibly be the same guy. No wanted criminal here. Even if they do put two and two together, maybe they ain’t gonna give up the nice guy on the run to the asshole cop bein’ pushy.”

Hanzo gave him a skeptical look. “That’s a lot of trust to put into a complete stranger.”

“It’s saved my hide more than once.”

“Then you are a fortunate fool,” Hanzo said as the elevator stopped. “But still a fool.”

McCree shrugged and followed him off the elevator to their room. “Whatever you say. I ain’t lookin’ for your validation.”

Despite not being a suite, the room was still large by hotel standards, comfortable and well furnished with two queen beds, two nightstands, a pair of cushioned chairs, and a small table with two more chairs. Holoscreen base emitters sat dormant on the far wall. Hanzo also had to give the hotel credit; for being a smoking room, he certainly couldn’t smell it.

McCree threw his bag on the bed closest to the door, followed by his hat and serape, and gently set his revolver down on the night stand. 

“Now what was this I heard about dinner?” McCree asked.

“I figured we could order dine-in room service, so we may have a private conversation,” Hanzo said, and set his weapon case and luggage carefully down on the floor by the other bed.

“Yeah, sure,” McCree flicked the holoscreen on and navigated off the public television stations and to the private hotel channel, searching for a bit before finding the room service page. He scrolled through the menu before selecting the filet mignon.

“The second most expensive item on the menu,” Hanzo noted dryly. “Why not go all the way and get the lobster?”

“That’s awful sweet of you, sugar, but I’m plumb tired of seafood,” McCree said with a falsely sweet smile that was all teeth. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll get cleaned up before you treat me to an interrogation over dinner.” 

Without further ado, McCree slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. 

Hanzo sagged against one wall. How exhausting. This had better be worth it. He was still leaning against the wall when the sounds of the shower startled him and he realized he was staring at nothing while his mind ran blank. The holographic menu was still on display and he added a meal of harissa-glazed salmon to the order and submitted it to the kitchen before closing the holoscreen. The drive had been long and he was still drained from both the fight and his meditation with his dragons. Perhaps he could sneak in a quick catnap while the cowboy was occupied. He wouldn’t actually sleep, but just have a brief rest.

Hanzo sank down into the bed and it was all he could do to hold in an involuntary moan. The room was expensive, but it was worth it all for the luxurious beds. Without taking his cybernetic boots off, he kicked his legs up onto the bed and curled up on his side. It was like sinking into a cloud that smelled pleasantly like clean linins and something faintly floral. He wasn’t going to sleep, he told himself. He couldn’t sleep with a stranger so close by, but maybe he could just rest his eyes. Just for a moment. Just for one brief…

Hanzo snapped awake at the sound of the bathroom door opening and shot upright, adrenaline pushing him to full wakefulness. 

“Forgot my damn bag,” McCree said, and then mumbled something else that Hanzo completely missed, as he was entirely distracted by the fact that McCree was wearing only a towel, haphazardly held around his waist with one hand.

McCree was still wet from his shower, damp hair plastered to his neck while rivulets of water ran along hairy bronze skin to drip onto the carpet. His bulky clothing had hidden much of his physique before, but now it was quite obvious that McCree was in better shape than Hanzo initially assumed. His prosthetic arm attached just above the elbow, but both his upper arms had solid biceps. His chest was broad, and though he had a soft layer of fat around his middle, he had the strong barrel abdomen of someone who had spent his life doing hard work, not the artificially toned six pack of a body builder. A tattoo sprawled across his upper back, a cow’s skull surrounded by a bandolier of bullets and two crossed revolvers, all over a red banner that trailed downward. Hanzo’s eyes followed the tattoo down his spine until they were caught by the towel around his waist and was quickly distracted by McCree’s thick thighs and the pleasantly tight curve of his ass. 

McCree chose at that moment to bend over to dig through his duffle bag, and that was just too much.

Hanzo sprang to his feet and quickly excused himself to vanish into the bathroom. He leaned against the sink and took several long, deep breaths to clear his head. He had been completely blindsided by McCree. Damn McCree, with his gorgeous tattoos and his thick thighs and his wide hands and broad shoulders. Hanzo briefly lamented not getting a good look at him before McCree had turned his back to start looking though his bag. If he was big everywhere, did that include what he was hiding under that towel? Hanzo’s mouth went dry.

_Enough! Get a hold of yourself!_

Hanzo ran cold water in the sink and washed his face, scrubbing hard, as if it would wash the unbidden thoughts away. He’d barely known McCree for a few hours, and he certainly didn’t trust the man. Just because he was unexpectedly attractive did not give Hanzo an excuse to lower his guard.

He didn’t shower, but stripped out of his kyudo gi and wiped himself down with a clean washcloth and more thoroughly cleaned the bullet graze on his right arm. The biobandages had already done a remarkably thorough job of starting the healing process, so he did little more than wash the wound out and bandage it once more. He sharpened up the edges of his beard, combed his hair, and once he felt more refreshed and in control of himself, he slid back into the sleeves of his gi and went to go deal with McCree once more. 

Hanzo emerged from the bathroom to find McCree dressed in lounge pants and a red flannel shirt, accepting their dinners from an omnic at the door. 

“No, no,” he said, taking the two covered trays. “Thank _you._ Feel free to give yourself a sixty percent tip. No, charge it to the room. It’s fine, trust me.” 

Hanzo scowled as the omnic server bowed with a few excited words of gratitude and left.

“Taking liberties with my generosity, I see.”

“Don’t pretend that you’re the victim here,” McCree said, setting their food down on the little table, beside two drinks. “I also helped myself to a nice glass of bourbon on your dime.”

“How noble.”

“Hey now. I also ordered sake for you.”

“How presumptuous! You don’t know what I drink,” Hanzo scowled and took his seat at the table.

“Am I wrong?” McCree asked, sitting opposite him.

“It depends on the quality of the sake,” Hanzo said and lifted the glass to inspect it.

“But you _do_ drink sake as your drink of choice,” McCree pressed.

“I do.”

“Well, there you go!” McCree grinned and slouched in the chair. Much like in the elevator and in the car, he seemed to take up too much space, his legs too long for the chair as he leaned forward to start on his steak.

He couldn’t possibly be that ungainly. McCree was taller than himself, but not exceedingly tall, and certainly not too tall to take up as much space as he was, as if any normal piece of furniture was too small for him. It had to be the way he presented himself, perhaps even deliberately, a way of making himself look bigger than he was to seem more imposing. Hanzo had applied similar techniques himself while he was still working with the Shimada clan.

He took a sip of his sake and made a face.

“This is terrible sake, by the way.”

McCree laughed. 

“Of course you’d think so, you arrogant bastard.”

Hanzo thinned his lips, but started on his salmon, which was actually fairly decent. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and Hanzo was trying to think of a way to approach the subject of Genji again when McCree surprised him by opening the subject himself.

“How long have you known Genji was alive?” he asked.

“Three days,” Hanzo replied, spearing another forkful of salmon.

“How did you know about our meeting last week?”

Hanzo delayed his answer with another sip of sake, no matter how terrible it tasted. The reversal of McCree interrogating him instead of the other way around was unexpected, but not terribly surprising in hindsight. He considered lying, but couldn’t see any true advantage to it, beyond petty spite.

“After Genji confronted me in Hanamura three days ago, I ran an image trawl online and found footage of you two from a traffic camera in New Orleans.”

“Hanamura? He did say he had some business in Japan…” McCree mused.

“Did he say anything else to you about his plans in Japan?” Hanzo asked, seizing the opportunity to ask a question of his own.

“No,” McCree said, but he’d dropped the stubborn tone he’d used earlier when refusing to answer Hanzo’s questions. “We had other business to discuss, and I didn’t ask. What happened in Hanamura?”

“Every year, I break into Shimada Castle to pay respects to…to Genji.”

McCree fixed him with an unimpressed look. “You pay respects after killin’ him?”

“He was– _is_ still my brother. And…I had to. I knew no one else would honor his memory. I am the only one who cared. The only one who missed him,” Hanzo looked back at McCree, waiting for him to interrupt again, but he was mercifully silent.

“I frequently encountered resistance, and a number of assassins sent by the Shimada clan have tried to use my ritual as an opportunity to kill me. I knew I had been followed into the castle, and I assumed it to be another assassin. I let him know I knew of his presence and he showed himself, but did not reveal his identity. We fought, blade to bow. He…defeated me, but as he held his blade to my throat, he chose to spare my life. He revealed himself to be my brother, and then left me with more questions than answers.”

Hanzo frowned at McCree, reminding him of who was supposed to be interrogating who. “What ‘other business’ did you and Genji discuss?”

“Tell me why you did it, first,” McCree said sharply.

Hanzo let out a short, humorless laugh. “You Westerners. You would never understand.”

McCree gave him an inscrutable look. “Try me.”

Hanzo sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“It is hard to tell when it all started. Perhaps when our father died, while we were teenagers. I believe that was when we started drifting apart. I was burdened with ruling the Shimada Empire while keeping the elders at bay, and had little time to spare for Genji. I had hoped to have his support. I _needed_ his support, but…” Hanzo trailed off for a moment before continuing.

“He had other pursuits. At first it was little things, like shirking his duties, running off to the arcade. As he grew older, he strayed further and further away, spending his time partying, drinking, indulging in sex and drugs. Meanwhile, I was keeping the clan together with one hand and holding warring elders at bay with the other. Finally, the elders demanded that I straighten Genji out so that he might help me rule the clan. I think they wanted to use him as a pawn. I hoped that he would be clever enough to reject their manipulations and stand by my side. Together, we could have become an unstoppable force. We could have–”

Hanzo’s voice grew tight and he was forced to stop for a moment. He took another swallow of terrible sake and risked a glance at McCree. The outlaw was sitting with arms folded, his expression carefully blank. Poker face, as he might say.

“Genji was very resistant to my attempts to bring him back to his duties. The day I finally went to confront him, I found that he had been selling secrets to Overwatch. That was…unforgivable. He dishonored himself and the clan. As the eldest brother and kumicho, it was my duty to absolve him of his crimes and restore honor to the clan.”

“By killing him,” McCree said, poker face still carefully in place.

“I told you. You wouldn’t understand,” Hanzo said with a bitter laugh. He glanced at McCree, but wasn’t interrupted again. 

“I tried. Really, I tried to talk to him first. I wanted him to join me, but somehow, while I was preoccupied as kumicho, he had become a different person, a stranger who wore my brother’s face. Or perhaps it was I who changed. I cannot say. …In the end, I struck him down.”

Hanzo could think of nothing more to say and fell still. The silence in the room rang in his ears until McCree finally spoke.

“Last I heard, the Shimada clan was on its way out and you’d been in the wind for at least…” McCree trailed off as he thought, and tapped the thumb and fingers of one hand together and he counted silently. “…eight years, maybe nine. If you gave so much of a shit about Shimada honor, why did you split?”

Hanzo didn’t ask how McCree knew he’d abandoned the Shimada clan, or how he knew accurately how long he’d been gone. The former Blackwatch operative had already proved himself to be much more intelligent than he looked. 

“Because I am coward,” Hanzo said before he could stop himself. “After what I’d done…I could not bear to stay. After restoring honor to the clan, I dishonored myself by betraying them. …Killing my younger brother broke my heart.”

Damn! How strong was that sake? He glanced at the glass, barely half gone. No, he couldn’t blame this on the alcohol. Talking about Genji really did just make him this vulnerable. He would have to be more careful about what he let slip to McCree.

McCree was silent for a moment, looking at Hanzo closely, and Hanzo took the opportunity to have a few more bites and avoid eye contact.

“I was Genji’s only friend, back in Blackwatch,” McCree finally said. “Well, the closest thing to a friend, at least. He let me in closer than anyone else. So, you’ll forgive me for being cagey about talkin’ about him to the man who tried to kill him. I’m still tryin’ to look out for him.”

“That is…understandable,” Hanzo said, and for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything else to say to that.

The silence grew heavy around them, and Hanzo found he had a new question he wanted answered more than any other.

“What was he like? When you knew him?”

“Angry,” McCree answered without hesitation. “God, I’ve never seen someone with so much concentrated hatred.”

Hanzo knew McCree must have been watching him for a reaction, but he flinched all the same and averted his eyes to his food. The familiar sensation of guilt clawed at his gut. It was already horrifying enough that he’d tried to murder his brother, but the fact that he’d turned him into a monster? That was even worse.

“He was in pain, too. It took a lot of trial and error to get him into a cybernetic build that left him with a minimal amount of pain. It was not an easy transition. He took a shine to Angela, despite being his primary doctor, and he was alright with me an’ Lena. He might have even respected Gabriel. Hard to say. That was it, though. He hated everything else. His teammates, the missions, his cybernetics, himself…but more than anything, he hated you.” McCree pointed at him with his fork before taking the last bite of steak. “He begged Reyes to let him go after you and hunt you down. Reyes was more than happy to take out the biggest crime syndicate in Japan, but you were already gone from the Shimada clan, and Genji never got his revenge. Didn’t know if you flew the coup or if another assassin got to you first, but he still had half a mind to hunt you down when he ditched Overwatch in ’70.”

“Why tell me this?” Hanzo finally asked.

“Because I want you to fully understand my surprise when I hear that he confronted you in the same place you murdered him on the anniversary of his death, and he deliberately chose to _not_ kill you.”

“You don’t believe me,” Hanzo said with a flat tone.

“I didn’t say that,” McCree said. He set his fork down, finished off his bourbon, and sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “Besides last week, I haven’t seen him in near seven years. Obviously, something changed.

Something about McCree’s tone sparked a memory.

“The world is changing once again…” Hanzo quoted, musing the words out loud.

“What was that?” McCree gave him a curious look.

“Genji’s parting words to me, three nights ago. ‘The world is changing once again, and it’s time to pick a side.’ He was frustratingly cryptic, even for Genji.”

McCree’s carefully curious look vanished, replaced by a look somewhere between shocked and dumbfounded.

“This means something to you,” Hanzo stated more than asked.

“I’ll be damned,” McCree muttered, and his low tone couldn’t hide the awe in his voice. He looked off into the distance, thinking for a moment, before catching Hanzo’s eye again. “He means it. He really means it. If he’s inviting you, he must actually forgive you.”

Hanzo’s rankled irritation returned in full at the concept of forgiveness, of all things. “He means _what?_ ”

“Overwatch,” McCree said. “They’re bringing back Overwatch.”

Hanzo stared at him. 

“The United Nations is seriously relaunching Overwatch? After everything that happened? Alongside their contracts with Helix Security?”

“God, no, of course not. A highly secret and very much illegal recall went out to all the old Overwatch emergency channels. Something about how everything’s gone to shit and the world needs heroes again. It was all very inspiring.”

“You sound unconvinced,” Hanzo said.

“I got the message, just like all the other old agents,” McCree said. “I ignored it.”

“And when Genji contacted you last week…” Hanzo started, the pieces finally falling together.

“He was tryin’ to convince me to join. I turned him down and then he took off to find you.”

“And made himself known to me, and tried to goad me into action. ‘Honor resides in one’s actions.’ ‘It is time to pick a side.’ He couldn’t ask me outright to join forces with him. He knew I was already reeling in shock and such a request would have been too much, but he wanted to implant the idea in me of something more.”

_Perhaps I am a fool to believe there is still hope for you, and yet, I do._

They mutually fell silent under the weight of revelation. 

“How…” Hanzo finally said, trailing off to find the right word.

“Idiotic?” McCree supplied.

“Idealistic,” Hanzo corrected. “Which strikes me as unusual. The Genji I knew was far from an idealist. I couldn’t even say he was an optimist.” He dusted off memories of the Genji from his youth, and it hurt less than he expected to revisit them. “He was intelligent, yes. Proud, creative, talented, imaginative, determined, irresponsible, stubborn, petty, selfish–”

“Oh, that one holds true,” McCree interrupted. “He was self-centered as hell in Blackwatch. Everything was all about him personally. Used to drive me crazy.”

“At least that hasn’t changed.”

“I can see how he went from selfish asshole to angry selfish asshole, but you’re right. Where the hell did this idealistic do-gooder come from?”

“And you’re positive it was the real Genji you spoke with last week?” Hanzo asked.

“Absolutely,” McCree said. “Had the same thought when he appeared out of the blue, but it was definitely him. I assume you had your own doubts likewise laid to rest after your encounter?”

“Correct.”

“Well, I have no idea what sparked this noble need to save the world,” McCree said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Last I saw, he’d decided to fuck off because he’d finally gotten so pissed with everything that he couldn’t stand being around anyone anymore. Said he’d finally dismantled the Shimada Clan, so he no longer had a purpose. I made him swear to me that he wasn’t going to do something stupid like kill himself, and then let him go. Haven’t seen hide nor hair from him since. Until last week, o’course.”

Hanzo considered for a moment before speaking. McCree had held his end of the bargain and given him a significant amount of information. Admitting to a stranger, an enemy even, that Overwatch was trying to reform was a considerable risk, one that McCree had taken all because it seemed Genji was willing to trust Hanzo. It was only fair that Hanzo offered some good information in return.

“When I did my image search, I found some footage that I believe to be from the time period after he left Blackwatch.”

McCree looked up sharply. 

“…Yeah?”

“If you are as intelligent as you claim, perhaps you can help me glean some information from them,” Hanzo said.

“I’d…” McCree swallowed and nodded. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll get my laptop.”

Hanzo stepped away from the table to fish his laptop out of his luggage while McCree cleared away their dirty dishes. 

What was he doing? Why was he helping this American gunslinger? He’d gotten the information he came for, so why keep up the façade? He risked a glance over at McCree. His poker face had dropped, revealing a glimpse to his true feelings in the way he chewed at the inside of his lip, the furrow between his brows, and how his eyes looked deep in thought, seeing somewhere Hanzo couldn’t.

McCree cared for Genji, Hanzo realized. McCree was there for his brother when Hanzo was not. If nothing else, that deserved recognition, and if by putting their heads together they both learned something about Genji’s whereabouts for the last few years, then that was all the better.

Hanzo set the laptop up on the now-empty table and retrieved the images that fit the missing gap in Genji’s timeline. 

“This is what I have.”

McCree leaned on the back of Hanzo’s chair and peered over his shoulder. He gave a low whistle. “Looks like someone’s been busy. What’s the range here?”

Hanzo started scrolling through the images, each one popping up in the micro holographic display before being passed over for the next one.

“These are all from the past four years, according to the time stamps, but I wouldn’t consider that reliable. As to where these were taken? As far as I can tell, just about everywhere.”

There were shots from all over the world, jungles, deserts, and snow-capped mountains. The pictures were all candid shots, Genji typically caught accidentally in the background of someone else’s photo.

McCree leaned in closer, crowding Hanzo’s space, and reached over him to swipe through the pictures himself. “Everywhere except a city, you mean. All of these are in rural or reclaimed areas. Nothing majorly populated. Even this one, here? Yeah, there’s lots of people, but the buildings themselves are in shitty shape. Probably a reclaimed town that’s being rebuilt after the omnic crisis.”

Now that McCree had pointed it out, Hanzo was stunned he hadn’t noticed it before. “You’re right. They don’t seem to have visited anywhere that looks…prospering.”

“If that’s a nice way of sayin’ they’re sticking to third-world and developing nations, I agree. And _speaking_ of, who the hell is ‘they?’ Damn near all of these have the same omnic in them. Any idea who it might be?”

Hanzo shook his head. “I do not. I am not even certain if it is the same omnic.”

McCree leaned forward to squint at the display and rested his prosthetic forearm against Hanzo’s shoulder, much to Hanzo’s alarm. That was far too close for far too many reasons. This close, Hanzo could smell the fresh fragrance of the stock hotel soap and the faintest hints of smoke clinging to his clothing. His hair was still damp and clung to his neck, and he’d shaved, his beard cleaned up and the scraggly edges neatly trimmed. 

“Nah, I think it’s the same one. See here?” McCree pointed at the picture, then scrolled to the next one. “And here? I ain’t seen many omnics with nine LED displays. That’s mighty unusual to me.”

Hanzo followed his pointed finger, but could see little more than a grey blur beside the silver and green blur that was Genji and the omnic in the far background. Cursing under his breath, he pulled away from McCree to fish his reading glasses out of his bag, perching them lightly on the bridge of his nose before leaning in to get a proper look at the picture.

McCree, to Hanzo’s grudging surprise, said nothing and merely waited for Hanzo to get situated before pointing out the omnic again.

“Wait a moment, I think I remember seeing a picture with more than one omnic…”  
Hanzo scrolled quickly through the pictures until he found the only photo that didn’t look like an accidental candid shot. This one was posed photo, with Genji in a group picture with five omnics, apparently posing in front of a stunning mountain background.

“Holy _shit,_ ” McCree gasped.

“What is it?”

“That’s Mondatta. That’s Tekartha Mondatta,” He jabbed his finger at the tallest figure in the photo.

Hanzo re-examined the photo with surprise. “The religious leader?”

“The former religious leader,” McCree corrected. “Assassinated five months ago. I’ll be damned.”

“There’s that same omnic,” Hanzo pointed out. “The one in the other photos.”

The omnic in question was standing beside Mondatta and behind Genji, and holding his fingers up in a peace sign.

“When’s this one dated?”

“Four years ago,” Hanzo said. “Almost five.”

“So Genji’s been spending the last few years hanging out with Shambali monks?”

They both fell silent to digest this information.

“That is _insane,_ ” McCree finally said.

“Actually, it’s one of the few things that makes sense,” Hanzo said.

“How’s that?”

“Genji, spending every waking moment with a stable, level-headed pacifist monk for nearly five years?”

McCree’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Traveling the world, going to places with people in need? Dealing with his angry outbursts with a cool, calm head?”

“I don’t know what lead Genji to initially fall in with the Shambali, much less _stay_ with them, but a monk with great patience could have absolutely had an effect on him.”

“Hell, that would have an effect on anyone,” McCree said. “That answers some questions, even if it brings up a few more in its wake. Genji the monk. Who’d have thought?”

“That…is still a concept too foreign for me to process. I won’t believe my brother is a monk until I see it with my own eyes.”

McCree gave him a sideways look. “So, what are you gonna do?”

“Pardon?” Hanzo glanced over at him, pulling the reading glasses from his face and putting them away.

“Now that you know. You gonna join up with Genji and Overwatch?”

Hanzo stared at him, incredulous, and actually needed a moment to formulate the words for his response.

“You honestly think they’d allow me to join?”

McCree shrugged. “With Genji’s recommendation? Yeah.”

“I’m a murderer, traitor, and an assassin.”

“They’re illegal and desperate.”

“It would be a terrible idea. I would be a risk to the team and I would be putting myself at risk for an organization I have no loyalty to.” Hanzo closed the laptop, the holodisplays winking out of existence. “And…I don’t know if I could do it. Be so close to him again.” 

“Yeah,” McCree said slowly after a moment. “I said no, too.”

“Why?” Hanzo asked. “You are on the run. Would you not like some stability? Somewhere to belong with people who miss you?”

McCree gave him a sad smile. “Absolutely. But a new, young Overwatch doesn’t need an outlaw like me darkening their doorstep.”

“Genji will be disappointed that he didn’t catch either of us.”

“Yeah, well he can goddamn deal. Hell, I bet he’s arrogant enough that he thought we’d join just because he asked.”

“ _That_ sounds like Genji. Just expecting people to follow him, with no explanation or preamble.”

“The world does not revolve around Genji Fucking Shimada. It’d serve him right if neither of us joined. Hell, if we’re such both such dishonorable sons of bitches, we might as well fuck off to do our own shit instead.”

“Together?” Hanzo asked with surprise.

McCree looked just as surprised as Hanzo felt, but his face turned thoughtful.

“Now there’s an idea.”

“A good idea or a bad idea?” Hanzo asked skeptically. 

“Hey now, don’t shoot it down yet! Think about it. We worked pretty well this morning, didn’t we? Had a pretty good scrap against each other and then got past a swarm of armed Gammarano mobsters without a scratch.”

Hanzo gave McCree a sour look, and McCree had the decency to look sheepish.

“Alright, that’s on me. And I’m truly sorry,” He made an aborted motion like he was going to take his hat off, but the hat was laying on the bed and he awkwardly put his hand over his heart instead. “From the bottom of my heart, I apologize for shooting you, and if we join up, I won’t lay hand nor bullet on you again.”

Hanzo allowed his sour look to fade and relaxed a fraction. “What would be the benefit of working together? You are a wanted criminal. Staying with you will bring unwanted attention to me.”

“For the last six years, Jesse McCree has worked alone. Simply bein’ with you will already divert plenty of suspicion. With your resources combined with mine, we could get some good, established aliases, maybe some fugitive recovery agent licenses, and go bounty hunting.”

“These are all excellent ways I can help you. What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Genji, Blackwatch, the good ol’ days, whatever. As to what I can offer in way of services? Well…” He leaned back and lit a cigarillo. “I am _really_ damn good at what I do.”

Typical cocky American.

“As am I,” Hanzo countered.

“And we fought to a stalemate. Imagine what we could do together. Hell, I even have a lead on a job.”

Hanzo grudgingly admitted the idea had merit. For ten years, he’d worked primarily alone. Solitude was safe, reliable, and familiar, but he’d had more than one close call in the last few years. Having someone to watch his back wasn’t the worst idea in the world. His heart ached, and he silently admitted to himself that ten years of more or less self-imposed exile had also left him lonely. He’d spent years convincing himself that he didn’t deserve companionship, but was allying with another wanted criminal really so different from being a fugitive alone?

“One job,” he said. “We’ll do one job, and if it goes well, I’d be willing to consider a more permanent arrangement.”

“Sounds like a deal, partner,” McCree said, and offered his hand. “But first, let’s agree on one thing.”

“And what would that be?” Hanzo asked.

“Genji Shimada always has been, and always will be, a little shit.”

Hanzo took McCree’s hand in a firm shake and almost smiled. McCree’s eyes twinkled.

“Now, how do you feel about the Midwest?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That chapter was a lot of talking and exposition, wasn't it? We're getting back to the action in the next chapter, so stay tuned! As always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://dabbledrabbleprose.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SadinaSaphrite), so hit me up! Comments and concrit are always encouraged, and thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments and critique are appreciated. Hit me up at my writing tumblr, [DabbleDrabbleProse!](http://dabbledrabbleprose.tumblr.com)


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